


Metamorphosis

by persephone_stone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Coming of Age, F/M, Fake Dating, Nostalgia, Sensitive Marshmallow Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_stone/pseuds/persephone_stone
Summary: Draco Malfoy is king of Hogwarts High—student body president, captain of both the water polo and basketball teams, and boyfriend of Astoria Greengrass, the hottest girl in school.That is, until said girlfriend returns from Spring Break with some unexpected news: she’s dumping him for a college boy.Now, Draco is on a mission to win her back. And who better to help him turn into a more intellectual, cultured version of himself than Hermione Granger, thesmartestgirl in school?As he and Hermione spend time together, will Draco learn how to be the right type of boyfriend for Astoria? Or will he instead learn that maybe Astoria is not the right type of girl for him?Written for theDramione RomCom Fest, based loosely on the 90’s teen romcomShe’s All That.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Percy Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 237
Kudos: 261
Collections: Dramione RomCom Fest





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DramioneRomComFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DramioneRomComFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> She's All That (1999) - claimed by persephone_stone
> 
> This is maybe the most fun I’ve ever had writing Dramione. High school muggle AUs are just THE BEST. Thank you in advance for reading. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my friend and alpha/beta, [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger), and to the lovely [RoseHarperMaxwell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell) for reading this over and making sure it wasn’t terrible.

Draco Malfoy parked his Tesla in the student lot of Hogwarts High School, killing the engine as he checked himself out one last time in the rearview mirror. 

“Looking good,” he said to his reflection, winking over the top of his mirrored sunglasses before climbing out of the car and sauntering into the school’s central quad. 

He high-fived Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle as he arrived at their usual table, climbing up to stand on the tabletop. Here, in the center of everything, he held court as the unofficial King of Hogwarts—student body president, captain of both the water polo _and_ basketball teams, and boyfriend of the absolute hottest girl in school: Astoria Greengrass.

He and Astoria hadn’t seen each other in over a week; her parents had used spring break to take her and her twin sister Daphne to Palo Alto for a tour of Stanford, where they both would be attending in the fall. He looked for her now, searching the crowd for the familiar sight of her long, blonde hair and willowy figure, eagerly anticipating their reunion.

“Looking for your brains, Malfoy?” came a snide voice from just below him. Draco looked down to find his childhood best friend/high school mortal enemy, Harry Potter, smirking up at him. 

“Actually, I was looking for your dick, Potter,” Draco shot back, feeling only a twinge of guilt as Crabbe and Goyle broke into loud guffaws behind him. Harry’s face flushed, and he stormed off to his little corner of the quad with the other artsy weirdos he had ditched Draco for freshman year.

Not that Draco was bitter about that, per se. So what if he couldn’t play an instrument or write poetry or draw anything more complicated than a stick figure? He was Draco Malfoy; he didn’t fucking need to.

The buzz of his cell phone pulled his thoughts back to the present. He dug it out of the front pocket of his distressed, $200 jeans, flicking his finger across the screen when he saw Astoria’s name.

 _Meet me in front of the school,_ it said. That was it. No “I love you,” no “I missed you,” not even any heart or kissy-face emojis. It was...weird.

 _Be right there, babe,_ he texted back, jumping off the table in a single leap and heading to the entrance of the school.

Draco was not blind to the effect he had on other people. He smirked as lower classmen turned to watch him walk past, girls sighing and preening, boys scowling or shouting a desperate, “What’s up, Malfoy!” 

He nodded in greeting but didn’t stop, too anxious to see Astoria again. When he arrived at the front of the school he stopped, searching for her. Students milled about, catching up with friends before the first period bell rang. He thought he caught a glimpse of blonde hair under a weeping willow tree, but as the girl was currently tongue-deep in a redhead boy’s throat, there was no way— 

Wait a second.

The couple making out under the willow tree turned, and Draco got a good look at the girl’s face in profile. He’d recognize the gentle slope of her nose anywhere, not to mention the curve of her ass, which was currently held in a death grip by the older boy she was kissing.

“Astoria?” Draco asked, walking toward the couple with a sinking feeling in his chest.

Was _this_ why she hadn’t texted him since the first day of spring break?

Was _this_ what—or apparently, _who_ —she’d been doing for the whole week they’d been apart?

At the sound of her name, she jumped guiltily, pulling away from the redhead—whom Draco now realized was Percy _fucking_ Weasley. Two years older than them and some kind of child prodigy, Percy was already in grad school—at fucking _Stanford_ —and had sold several truly weird paintings for more money than Draco would pay to punch him in the stupid, freckled face right now.

“Draco!” Astoria said, breathless and guilty and still so pretty. Damn her.

He said nothing, just stared at her, mouth open in shock.

“Oh, Draco, I’m sorry,” she simpered. “I didn’t mean for you to see that. I just—well, you know that my parents are friends with the Weasleys, and we met up with Percy and his family while we were in Palo Alto, and one thing led to another…” she trailed off, pleading with her eyes for him to say something, to understand.

“Are you—are you breaking up with me?” He knew it was stupid, but it was all he could manage. He felt his eyes water, and blinked furiously to keep the tears from spilling over.

Astoria sighed, stepping away from Percy to put her hand on Draco’s arm. “Draco,” she began, looking up at him with those sky blue eyes that he had always thought were so beautiful. “You are such a good boyfriend. But we’re just too different. I like art galleries and film festivals. You like sports and Netflix. Percy—” she turned, gazing dreamily over her shoulder at the scrawny little fucker. “Percy and I are just...more in sync. He’s an _intellectual._ Plus, he and I will both be at Stanford next year, and you...”

She trailed off, smiling sadly at him before reaching her hand back for Percy’s. “I’m sorry, Draco.” 

Then she was moving away from him, Percy’s arm around her shoulders as he walked her to her first class. 

Draco felt numb. He turned slowly, dimly aware of a bell ringing somewhere above his head, but in such a state of shock that he could barely put one foot in front of the other, let alone navigate his way to class. 

He decided he would go home for the day. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate in his classes, so he might as well just—

Exactly what he planned to do next, he’d never know, as just then someone slammed into him from behind. He cursed loudly as they both fell forward onto the grass beneath the willow tree—now the scene of both his heartbreak and this humiliation. 

Facedown in the grass, Draco debated just lying there for the rest of the day. But then the smaller body on top of his back shifted, rolling off of him and muttering, “Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” in a distinctly feminine voice. 

A distinctly _familiar_ feminine voice. 

Turning his head just an inch, he was unsurprised to see the raucous curls of Hermione Granger in his periphery. She was on her hands and knees, furiously shoving notebooks and pens back into the canvas tote they had spilled out of. 

She looked up at him suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t. Say. A. Word. Malfoy,” she hissed, punctuating each word with a jab of her finger at his face. Said finger was adorned with two silver rings—one a lion’s head, the other the circle and cross of the “female” symbol. The rings joined the army of jewelry she wore on her other fingers, both wrists, ears, and even her nose, where a delicate silver hoop looped through one nostril. She stood, stepping toward him, black combat boots stopping within an inch of his face. A worn flannel shirt was tied around her hips, a faded—probably vintage—Nirvana t-shirt tucked into the waistband of her skin-tight jeans. 

She leaned over, extending a hand to him. He ignored it, pushing himself up onto his hands before nimbly hopping into a standing position. She glared at him again, and he mimed speaking. “Oh go ahead,” she snapped, rolling her eyes. 

“Well you said I couldn’t speak—after you assaulted me, by the way—so I wasn’t sure I was allowed,” he shot back, enjoying the way she bristled at his words. Ever since she’d moved to town in fourth grade, he’d enjoyed making her bristle. 

“Look, I said I was sorry. My car wouldn’t start so my dad had to drive me to school, and I didn’t want to be late for Calc—” she broke off, blowing her breath out in a sigh that made her curls fly about her face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m just—I’m sorry I knocked you over.”

Turning her back on him, she hurried off toward the nearest building, bag slung over her shoulder. 

Draco sighed and bent to retrieve his own books. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a dog-eared paperback lying just under the tree. 

“Hey Granger, you forgot something!” he called, picking up the book and inspecting the title. “ _Pygmalion?_ ” he read, just managing to finish the title before having the book snatched out of his hand. “Is that for English class?”

“No,” she said, lifting her chin, enough haughtiness in her expression to impress even his mother. “I’m reading it for fun.”

He glanced at her, incredulous. “I don’t think you and I have the same definition of ‘fun.’”

Her brows lowered, eyes sparking with annoyance. “Obviously not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, one of us has an important class to attend.”

She turned to leave again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Draco watched her walk away, headed toward her advanced math class, where she would probably talk about _advanced_ things with all of her _advanced_ friends and then— 

He was glad no one was around to hear his audible gasp, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline and heart seizing in his chest as an idea struck his brain with the force of a lightning bolt. 

Not sparing a moment for second thoughts he ran, taking several loping strides and lunging forward, snagging Hermione by the elbow just as she reached the door of her classroom. 

“Granger—wait,” he said, a smile spreading slowly over his face. 

Hermione’s face changed, going from irritated to wary. “What is it, Malfoy?”

“You’re smart, right?” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Objectively.”

“And you like art and music and shit, right?”

“‘Art and music and—’ did you hit your head when I knocked you down?”

He shook his head, pale blond hair falling artfully into his eyes. “Listen, I need your help. Can you teach me about stuff like that? Teach me how to be more… _intellectual?_ ” The words burned like acid in his throat, but he’d be damned if he gave Astoria up without a fight.

Even though she looked at him as though he’d sprouted another head, he took heart from the fact that she didn’t immediately laugh in his face and tell him to piss off. Instead, she said, “What’s in it for me?”

He grinned. “Ah, so you have a mercenary streak. I can deal with that. What do you want?”

She pursed her lips, considering. “There’s a two week singer/songwriter workshop at Berklee College in June. I want to go, but I can’t afford it.”

“You want me to pay for it? How much?”

“$1,500.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open. “$1,500! What the fuck, Granger?”

She rolled her eyes again. “It’s _Berklee College,_ Malfoy, not the YMCA. And don’t even act like you can’t afford that, Mr. ‘I Drive a Brand New Tesla.’”

“My parents bought me that! And besides, it’s good for the fucking environment,” he added, scowling at her.

She arched an eyebrow. “Those are my terms.”

He groaned, dropping his head back to squint up at the ceiling. “Okay. Fine. Deal.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she said, finally jerking her arm from his grasp and pulling open the classroom door. “Meet me after school in the parking lot,” she added over her shoulder. “You can give me a ride home.”

Feeling as though he may have just been swindled, Draco turned and jogged off toward his own first period class. Guess he couldn’t leave now—he had to give his new tutor a ride home.


	2. Chapter Two

Hermione propped a hip on the metallic gray hood of Draco’s Tesla, knowing it would annoy him to have her non-designer jeans rubbing up against a car that cost more than most people made in a year. 

She earned a few double-takes as the final bell rang and the classrooms emptied, but she lifted her chin, staring down anyone who had the nerve to question why Hermione Granger was waiting for Draco Malfoy. 

When she finally saw his pale head among the sea of bodies heading toward the parking lot, she leaned back, placing both hands firmly on the car’s hood. She carefully arranged her face into a smirk, which turned into a genuine grin when Draco saw her. 

His face flushed and he picked up his pace, stopping abruptly in front of her and letting out a horrified squawk. “What the fuck, Granger? Get your thrift store ass _off_ my car!”

She kept the lazy grin on her face as she complied, bending to grab her bag before strolling leisurely to the passenger door. “I think you mean my _intellectual_ thrift store ass, Malfoy.”

He rolled his eyes, unlocking the car and disappearing behind the wheel. Hermione climbed in, as well, watching him fume as he navigated his car through the crowded parking lot. 

When they were finally on their way, Draco relaxed slightly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. 

“You’ll have to give me directions to your house.”

She arched a brow at him, allowing her disbelief to bleed into her voice. “Malfoy, you’ve known me since we were eleven. You came to my birthday party every year until 8th grade. Our dads are friends.”

He scoffed. “So?”

“You know where I live.”

He made a noncommittal noise, but didn’t argue. 

Hermione relaxed back into the admittedly comfortable leather seat, spinning one of her rings as she watched the tree-lined streets glide by out her window. Unlike Malfoy, she lived on the other side of town from their high school. On a good day, the drive took about ten minutes. This morning, when her mom’s old BMW had refused to start and her dad had to give her a ride, the drive felt closer to an hour. 

“So why do you need me to help you?” she finally asked, turning her head against the seatback to watch him carefully. They’d never been friends, exactly—not like he and Harry had been friends—but she knew him well enough to know when he was uncomfortable. And he was definitely uncomfortable right now. 

He sighed, hitting the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “Astoria broke up with me.”

She felt her eyes go wide. Astoria and Draco had been together since freshman year, had been practically joined at the hip for the last four years. “Why?”

Draco sighed again, this time pushing his hand through his hair and leaving it artfully disheveled. “She wants someone smarter. More intellectual. She and Daphne toured Stanford last week and met up with the Weasleys. You know Percy goes there, and… well. They’re dating now, I guess.”

“You guess?” Hermione couldn’t help the incredulous tone that crept into her voice. “Did she—wait, did she cheat on you?”

He shrugged. “Technically.”

“With _Percy?_ ”

A short nod of agreement.

“And then she said you weren’t smart enough for her?” Hermione whistled, shaking her head. “What a bitch.”

“She’s not,” Draco said shortly, turning onto Hermione’s street. “She’s just—I mean, she has a point, right? I’m not exactly the valedictorian.”

She gaped at him, unable to believe her ears. “Okay, but you’re not dumb, either. Just because you’d rather act like an ass with your friends than apply yourself to your classes doesn’t mean you’re not smart. It just means you make terrible choices.”

“I could say the same thing about your clothes, Granger,” he said, shooting her a sideways smirk. 

Thirteen-year-old Hermione would’ve been very invested in that smirk. Eighteen-year-old Hermione scowled. 

“I like my clothes.”

“They’re the finest Goodwill has to offer, I’m sure.”

“You’re such a snob. And for your information, this shirt was my mom’s.”

She watched the flush creep, slow and steady, up the skin of his throat, over his jaw, into his cheeks. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Finally, he managed to speak.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, as though it was nothing. As though even saying the word “mom” didn’t hurt. “It’s fine,” she said, voice carefully flat. 

He stopped his car in front of her house, a light blue two-story with white trim that sat far back off the street. Tall birch trees lined the yard, their leaves whispering softly in the afternoon wind. 

They sat quietly for a moment, until Hermione sighed and reached for the door handle. His hand came to her shoulder, stopping her. She looked back at him, a question in her eyes. 

“I really am sorry, Hermione. I always liked your mom.”

She blinked, desperate to push down the hot tears that sprang unbidden to her eyes. “Thanks, Malfoy. But really, it’s fine.” She opened the door and climbed out, then sighed again, turning to face him once more. “Look, do you want to come in and talk about your plan? My dad shouldn’t be home from work for another hour, at least.”

He hesitated, eyes moving between her face and her house. Finally he nodded, killing the engine and climbing out.

Hermione led him across the lawn, past her dad’s prized agapanthus and the small, bubbling fountain he’d installed last summer. She pulled her keys out of her bag and unlocked the front door. Although Draco appeared hesitant, he followed her inside.

A loud “ _mrow_ ” greeted them as Hermione dropped her bag at the foot of the stairs. She looked up to find her ancient orange cat, Crookshanks, staring down at them through the railing.

“That cat is still alive?” Draco asked in a hushed voice. At his words, Crookshanks moved nimbly down the stairs, approaching him at a trot. Draco grimaced, but allowed Crookshanks to rub a slow circle around his legs, leaving behind equal measures of long orange fur and drool. Hermione laughed at the expression on his face, giving Crookshanks a good scratch between his ears before heading into the kitchen.

Draco settled at the table, while Hermione pulled open the refrigerator doors and began digging around. 

“Want some green juice?” she asked him, pulling out glass containers of pre-cut fruits and vegetables. He shrugged noncommittally, so she doubled her usual ingredients.

“So what kinds of ‘intellectual’ things are you interested in?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the juicer’s motor. “Book suggestions? Political discussions? Museum trips? Tickets to the opera?” She shut the machine off, pouring them each a tall glass of what, admittedly, looked like radioactive pond scum. “Nutrition?” she finished, setting it in front of him. 

He grimaced, but took a sip. Immediately, his face froze, eyes going wide with shock. Hermione watched the internal battle play across his face over whether he should swallow the juice or spit it in the sink. Swallowing finally won out—but just barely. 

“God, Granger,” he croaked, “are you trying to poison me?” 

She eyed him cooly, taking a large sip of her own juice. “I guess it’s an acquired taste. So—your plans?” 

“Right.” As he spoke, he gradually pushed his juice away, as though it might leap out of the glass and attack him if he made any sudden movements. “I don’t even know where to start. I’m open to whatever ideas you have, but I was thinking earlier… and I think we should pretend that I’m your boyfriend.”

It was Hermione’s turn to choke and sputter. “My what now?”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I know. It’s... a lot. But I don’t think anyone would believe that we’re, well, _friends_ all of a sudden.”

She arched a brow. “But they’ll believe we’re dating?”

He had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. “They’ll believe we’re having sex.”

She felt her eyes narrow, her lips purse in anger. Then she was moving, lurching across the table to punch him in the chest.

“Jesus, Granger! That hurt!” he exclaimed, rubbing his injured pec. He glared at her before continuing. “Besides, seeing us together will make Astoria jealous. So you know. Win, win.”

“Oh, that’s really healthy,” she snarked. 

“Look, do you want your money or not?” He crossed his arms, waiting for her response. 

She sat back in her chair, appraising him for a long moment—long enough to give her the pleasure of watching him squirm. When he looked as though he was ready to bolt out the door, she relented. “Fine. But you have to fully commit to this fake relationship. We’re not going to be sneaking around like you’re ashamed of me. I don’t know if you know this, Draco Malfoy, but I’m a fucking _catch._ ”

“That’s not what Ron Weasley said,” he muttered under his breath, wincing when her fist made contact with the other side of his chest.

“Are you going to take this seriously?” she hissed.

“Yes, okay, fine,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, that was a low blow.”

“You think?”

He pushed both hands into his hair, sighing in defeat. “I’m sorry. It’s been a shitty day, but I shouldn’t be a dick to you. You were willing to help me, after all.” He looked up at her, the smallest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Taking pity on him, she pushed to her feet. “I need to go grab a few things from my room. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Then, not waiting for his response, she dashed out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her bedroom. 

It was a room frozen in time, completely out of sync with her current persona. The walls were a pale, pale pink, with little white roses and pastel green vines painted around the doorframe. She still remembered painting this room with her mom when they’d first moved in, and… well, she just couldn’t bear to change it.

She hurried across the room to her desk, pulling out one of her many notebooks and a pack of multi-colored pens from the deep drawers before heading back downstairs.

Halfway down the stairs she froze, arrested by the telltale sound of the garage door opening and her dad’s car pulling in. Forcing her feet to move, she ran across the entryway and into the kitchen, skidding to a comically exaggerated stop in front of Draco—a feat made even more impressive by the combat boots on her feet.

“My dad’s home,” she panted, eyes wild and hair even wilder, she was sure.

“...So?”

“So? So! So just—oh fuck, here he comes. Just act normal,” she whispered.

“Riiiiight” He drew out the word between his annoyingly perfect teeth. “Normal.”

A door opened and closed, and then her dad’s footsteps were moving toward them. His cheery voice called out a greeting. “Hey honey! I smell that toxic sludge you like to drink, so I know you’re home. I was able to—oh.” He stopped speaking as he rounded the corner, mouth falling open and eyes bouncing back and forth between Hermione and Draco, who were both standing in the middle of the kitchen. 

“Hey, Mr. Granger,” Draco said, stepping forward to shake her dad’s hand.

“Draco! What a surprise!” Her dad recovered quickly, shaking Draco’s hand enthusiastically and raising his eyebrows at Hermione. She rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had the pleasure of seeing you around here,” her dad continued, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “I’ve seen enough of your dad to last me a lifetime, though.”

“You and me both, Mr. Granger.”

“Please, Draco. Call me Sam.” His eyes twinkled with amusement as he spoke—amusement that ignited into mischief as he caught a glimpse of Draco’s untouched green juice. “Oh no. No, no, no, Hermione.” He moved toward the table, picking the glass up carefully, as though it held explosive material. “I must insist that you not assault my guests with this nutritious nonsense.”

“Draco’s my guest, Dad.”

“So say you,” he murmured, gleefully pouring the mixture down the drain before running the water and flicking on the garbage disposal. “I say anyone who is smart enough not to drink this disgusting concoction is a friend of mine.”

Draco snickered. She’d expected the sound to be mean, but it wasn’t. Did he actually think her dad was funny?

“Alright Dad, well if you’re quite finished talking trash about my attempts to prevent you from having a heart attack, then Draco and I have some business to attend to.”

“Right, right,” Sam grinned, winking at her. “‘Business.’ I’ll just make myself scarce. I have a few episodes of that British baking show to catch up on, anyway.” He pulled open the refrigerator, grabbing a bottle of soda and package of string cheese before faux-moonwalking into the living room. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be a dentist?” Hermione called, voice full of fond exasperation. She turned to Draco to find him smiling at her. “What?” she asked, immediately back on the defensive.

His smile faltered. “He’s just like I remember. That’s all.”

She nodded, tossing her notebook and pens onto the table. “That he is.” She pulled out a chair, dropping into it—and immediately leaping back up with a shriek when she realized Draco had already sat down, putting her effectively in his lap.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Well if I’m your boyfriend, you should be comfortable sitting on my lap, don’t you think?”

“At no point will I be sitting on your lap, Malfoy.”

He smirked. “We’ll see.”

She huffed, pulling out the chair next to his and deciding to completely ignore him for the remainder of her planning. She worked quickly, efficiently—listing out ideas, cross-checking dates and times on her phone, demanding Draco’s credit card to order them tickets to a museum and a play, color-coding the plan as she went.

An hour and many distressed noises from Draco later, Hermione said goodbye and walked him to her door. 

“See you at school tomorrow, lover,” Hermione joked, leaning against the doorway. Draco rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was genuine as he headed down the driveway to his car. Before he climbed inside, he blew her an exaggerated kiss.

She laughed, but sobered as she watched him drive away, wondering what, exactly, she’d just gotten herself into.

“Is your boyfriend gone?” 

She pushed the door shut, dropping her forehead against it before turning to face her dad. “How long have you been standing there?”

He grinned, scratching at the side of his neatly-trimmed beard. “Long enough.” 

She groaned dramatically, grabbing her bag and tromping up the stairs to her room. With her fake dating plans solidified, she needed to focus on her homework. 

“Hermione?”

She turned at the top of the stairs. Her dad was looking up at her, smile soft but eyes serious. “Yeah, Dad?”

“I hope you and Draco know what you’re doing. A young person’s heart isn’t something anyone should mess around with.”

“I appreciate the concern, Dad.” Her chest felt warm and tight, despite her flippant tone. “But I promise you, my heart is in no danger. I’m not a silly teenage girl anymore.”

He put his hands in his pockets, grinning up at her as he rocked back on his heels. “No, you’re definitely not that.”

She snorted, turning once more toward her room.

“Oh, and Hermione?”

She stopped. Turned. Took a few steps back to look down over the railing.

“I was talking about Draco’s heart.”

Her brows drew together, head tilting in confusion. “I don’t think his heart is in danger, either, Dad.”

He made that annoying face that all adults seem to have perfected—the one that lets young people know how much older and wiser they are—and smiled. “Whatever you say. _Lover._ ”

Hermione could hear his laughter long after she’d slammed her bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And extra thanks to [PacificRimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud) and [RoseHarperMaxwell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell) for their alpha/beta work on this chapter! They are both THE BEST.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! I know it's been a long time since the last update, and I am truly sorry! Finishing up WANDS OUT! and life in general took priority. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> TW for this chapter: mentions of parental loss due to cancer

Draco drove home slowly, mind spinning at the day he’d had. He’d been so sure of himself this morning. He was Draco Malfoy, the most popular kid in their senior class—maybe even the whole school. He was the boyfriend of Astoria Greengrass, a girl he’d loved since the first day of freshman year, when they’d been assigned lab partners in science. 

But then today, instead of being reunited with Astoria, making out against his locker in between making plans for prom, everything about his carefully-constructed high school persona had come crashing down. It had all happened so fast that he hadn’t really had time to process it yet.

Instead, he’d focused on Hermione Granger. Frustrating, confusing Hermione Granger.

If he was completely honest with himself, he’d always been intimidated by her. She’d burst into his life through their mutual friendship with Harry, smart, sarcastic, and completely unafraid to speak her mind. They were acquaintances and reluctant friends throughout middle school, bickering their way through birthday parties and group gatherings until high school blew up everyone’s social circles. That’s when Harry and Hermione had gotten more serious about music, and had started hanging out with an entirely different crowd than Draco was used to. For the first time in his life, he’d found himself feeling left out. Left behind. When he’d had a chance to join the more sporty, popular crowd after a season of freshman water polo, he didn’t look back.

He stopped at the entrance to his neighborhood, hit the button on his remote, then waved at Mr. Filch in the guard house as the gates swung open. He drove slowly past the huge houses and manicured lawns. At the end of the long street was his house: the crown jewel of the neighborhood. He tapped his garage door opener, parked, and shut off the engine, making sure to plug his car in to charge.

“Fuck off, big oil,” he muttered, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and entering the house.

As he walked down the long hallway from the mudroom to the kitchen, he was struck by how different his house was from Hermione’s. Exotic hardwood floors, high corniced ceilings, priceless art hanging on the walls. Why did he need to visit a museum? He lived in one.

“Draco? Is that you, son?” 

Draco sighed at the sound of his dad’s voice. As sole heir to the Malfoy Chocolate Corporation, Lucius Malfoy hadn’t needed to work a day in his life—so he hadn’t. Instead, he’d dedicated his adult life to philanthropy, supporting his wife’s political career, and raising Draco. 

Draco loved his dad, but sometimes he could be… a lot.

“Come into the kitchen and tell me what you think of this new recipe,” Lucius called out. 

Draco rounded the corner, dropping his bag near one end of the long marble island before climbing up onto a stool, ready to serve as guinea pig for Lucius’s latest culinary experiment.

After Hermione’s green juice, anything else was almost guaranteed to be well-received.

Lucius pulled a dish out of the oven, carefully carrying it over to the stovetop before removing his oven mitts and turning to greet his son. His silver eyes crinkled at the corners as he pulled Draco into a hug.

“How was school?” he asked, stepping back to dig out some plates and a spatula.

Draco knew from experience that his dad wouldn’t accept “Fine,” as an answer. “It was… unexpected,” he finally settled on, shifting on his stool.

“Hmmm,” Lucius agreed, dishing up two servings of whatever he’d made—some kind of casserole, if Draco had to guess. “I just got a text from Sam Granger. He said you gave Hermione a ride home today?”

His voice was nonchalant, but Draco wasn’t fooled. His dad was nothing if not a gossip, and he knew it must be killing both Lucius and Sam to find out what was really going on.

“Yeah, I did. She had some car trouble.”

“Ah,” Lucius said, reaching into the silverware drawer for two forks. “What did Astoria have to say about that?”

There it is, Draco thought, feeling a pang in his chest at Astoria’s name. “Nothing. We broke up.”

Lucius sighed, turning and setting Draco’s plate in front of him. “I’m sorry, son.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s okay. We probably would have broken up when she went off to college, anyway. Might as well get it over with now, I guess.” He picked up his fork, twirling it through the red sauce leaking from within the casserole. He tried to make his voice sound light. Untroubled. “And Hermione and I are going to start hanging out more. So, you know, not a total loss.”

Lucius eyed him steadily. “You know, you could still ‘go away’ to college. I have a few connections at Cal, and I’m sure—”

“No, Dad,” Draco cut him off. “I don’t have the grades. It’s not worth embarrassing either of us to ask.”

Lucius shrugged, but didn’t push. “So how’s Hermione? I haven’t seen her in so long—she was always such a nice girl.”

It was Draco’s turn to shrug. “She’s okay. You know… still smart and stuff.”

“Sam worries about her a lot. I can’t imagine what it was like for her, losing her mom so young.”

Draco’s chest ached at his words. Hermione’s mom had passed away at the end of freshman year, after a short, intense battle with ovarian cancer. Although their quasi-friendship had already drifted by that time, he still felt guilty that he hadn’t been there for Hermione during the hardest time of her life. Especially after today, when it had been so painfully obvious to Draco how _not_ okay she actually was, almost three years later.

“She still wears her old clothes,” was all he could say.

“Well, Maggie was a really cool woman,” Lucius said, smiling sadly. He dropped his gaze to his plate, but not before Draco saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “And a good friend. We all miss her.”

Uncomfortable with his dad’s easy access to his emotions, Draco shoved a bite of casserole into his mouth, and paid for it by immediately burning his tongue. He chewed for a minute, swallowing with difficulty. “Um, Dad...what is this I’m eating?”

Lucius grinned, taking a small bite off his own plate. “Do you like it? It’s a vegan enchilada casserole. It has chickpeas, spinach, and quinoa, with vegan cheese and homemade sauce.”

Coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to eat a normal meal today, Draco sighed. “It’s great, Dad. But you know what? I actually had a snack at Hermione’s, so I’m not really hungry right now. I’m just going to head upstairs and do some homework.”

Lucius nodded, waving Draco off. “Go ahead, go ahead, don’t let me keep you. I’ll send Mom up when she gets home and we can all have dinner together.”

In his room, Draco flopped down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had no intention of doing his homework—instead, he was going to indulge in some good old-fashioned wallowing.

He’d just gotten comfortable—shoes off, pillow fluffed just right, lights dimmed—when his cell phone chimed with an incoming text. He dug it out of his pocket, scowling at Hermione’s name on his screen.

_H: Hey._

Draco smirked before responding.

_D: Who’s this?_

_H: Your girlfriend._

_D: Astoria? Did you change your number?_

_H: So funny. We need to talk._

Draco shifted, rolling onto his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows.

_D: What about?_

_H: What are we going to tell people about us?  
I mean, 24 hours ago you were dating Astoria.  
Now all of a sudden you’re my boyfriend?_

_D: Yeah…?_

_H: And you don’t think our friends will be suspicious?  
We didn’t think this through.  
Oh god, my friends are going to hate me._

He sat up, frowning at his phone. He could feel her anxiety rubbing off on him. And also, he was more than a little offended at the implication that her friends didn’t like him. He was awesome.

_D: Ok, calm down. Let me think for a minute._

_H: You really think you can figure something out in A MINUTE?_

He rolled his eyes. 

_D: So maybe we don’t tell people we’re dating.  
At least, not yet._

_H: Ok…_

_D: Let’s go to lunch together tomorrow.  
Let people get used to seeing us together.  
Make it obvious we’re...close._

_H: Yes, but how did we go from like, sort of enemies to friends?_

_D: Maybe we hung out a lot over spring break.  
You could tell people you were my English tutor, they’d totally believe that._

_H: I worked every day over spring break._

_D: I came to visit you at work.  
We talked about Shakespeare and similes and shit while eating soup at Pho King._

_H: And we found romance over the sweet smells of tripe, cilantro, and noodles?_

_D: Gross.  
I obviously ordered the Pho King steak.  
And it doesn’t have to be romance yet.  
Just...I don’t know. _

_H: A connection?_

He sighed. A connection—that’s what he’d always longed for. A connection with his parents, with his friends, and especially with Astoria. 

_D: A connection, yeah.  
And then when Astoria and I broke up...I acted on the connection._

_H: Ok.  
That sounds ok.  
I don’t know if that’s going to work, but...ok._

_D: It’ll work.  
Trust me.  
Hey, while I have you—what should I wear to school tomorrow?_

_H: Clothes._

_D: Yes, Granger, thank you so much, I would’ve never thought of that on my own.  
What kind of clothes should I wear to appear more—you know—studious?_

_H: You seriously want fashion advice from me?  
The person whose clothes you insulted SEVERAL times today?_

_D: Yup._

_H: Ugh. I’m going to FaceTime you._

Two seconds later, his phone rang. He answered it, and Hermione’s face appeared on the screen. Her wild hair was pulled back off her face into a high top-knot, and she wore a superior expression on her face.

“Alright, let’s see what’s in your closet.”

He smirked, stood, and crossed the plush carpeting of his bedroom to the walk-in closet, flicking on the light. Trophies gleamed on the highest shelves, their little golden figures dribbling basketballs or surging upwards out of the water. Just below them was the sash and crown he’d won earlier this year, when he’d been crowned Homecoming King. Astoria had been his queen, he thought, and felt a wrenching sensation in the general area of his heart.

Hermione’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Jeez, Malfoy, your closet is as big as my entire room.”

He forced a laugh, hoping she couldn’t tell that he’d been having a moment. “It’s my burden to bear, Granger.” He moved toward his shirts, which were carefully laundered, pressed, and organized by color by his family’s housekeeper, Ms. Dobbs. “So what do you think?” he asked Hermione, propping his phone on the island dresser of his closet. That way, she could see his clothes and he could see her. 

She made a face. “Do you own anything besides T-shirts?”

“I have a few with collars?” He moved down the row of shirts, pushing the offensive tees out of the way. “Ooh, this one even has buttons.” He pulled down a pale green button-down, holding it up against his body as he turned back to Hermione.

She squinted at him, and he moved closer. “Is it fitted?”

He shrugged. “Let me try it on.” Setting the new shirt down near the phone, he grasped the hem of the one he currently wore, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion that left him shirtless. He pulled on the button-down, holding his arms out for inspection when all the buttons had been done up.

Silence greeted him. He peered at his phone’s screen, saw Hermione sitting absolutely still, and wondered if the image had frozen.

“Hermione? Did I lose you?” he asked. 

She jumped. Cleared her throat. Shook her head. “I’m here, sorry. It fits. Er, is fitted. It looks nice. The—the shirt.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said, beginning to unbutton it again.

Her voice interrupted his progress, bursting loudly from the phone’s speaker. “Wait! What pants are you planning to wear with that? Don’t wear those distressed ones you had on today.”

He arched a brow at her. “Wear the same jeans two days in a row? Who do you think I am—Potter?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just pick a pair with no holes in them. Maybe a darker wash, so you look more dressed up than dressed down.”

He nodded, fingers going back to the buttons. 

“And your shoes!” she interjected again, causing him to huff in frustration. “Do you have any nice shoes?”

“Do I have any—” He scoffed. “Granger, I own fifty pairs of shoes. I’ll find something that works.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Do your damn homework and I’ll meet you in the parking lot at lunch tomorrow.”

He shot her a thumbs-up. “See you then.”

An hour later, after carefully laying out his clothes for the next day and grudgingly sitting down at his desk to finish some math homework, three gentle taps sounded on his door.

It opened and his mother appeared. She was dressed in a stylish pantsuit, smiling the smile that had won her elections to the city council, to the mayor’s office, and most recently, to the California State Senate. 

Narcissa Malfoy was an impressive woman by any stretch of the imagination, tall and blonde and movie star beautiful. To Draco, she was his best friend and closest confidante. 

“Hi, honey,” she said, opening her arms. He stood, stepping into them, feeling the tension leave his body as they came around him. 

“Hi, Mom,” he replied, not even caring that his voice wavered.

They stood together in silence for a moment, her fingers trailing gently through his hair. “Dad said that you and Astoria broke up,” she finally murmured. 

He nodded against her shoulder before sniffing and stepping back. “Yeah, we did. I have a plan to get her back, though.”

Her lips pressed together, a humming noise slipping between them. He wasn’t sure if it was a noise of approval or not. “You know, Draco,” she said, looping her arm about his elbow and pulling him toward the stairs. “Sometimes things happen for a reason. Astoria is a nice girl, but if she can’t see what a wonderful young man you are, then I don’t think you should waste any more time on her.”

He nodded, only half listening as they made their way down the hall.

As though she knew he was ignoring her, she changed the subject. “Dad also said you hung out with Hermione today? Now there is a girl I would love to see more of.”

Nervous energy rippled through him, but he nodded, a half-smile tugging at his lips at his mom’s obvious enthusiasm. “You might get your wish. We’re going to be hanging out more. She’s going to teach me about art and books and culture and… stuff,” he trailed off lamely. When his mom hummed this time, there was no question of her approval. 

At the table, Draco pulled out her chair for her before taking his own seat. Lucius bustled over with a glass of white wine for his wife, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

She took a sip, smiling at Draco in a way that made him feel like he was seven years old again and about to get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Does that mean we’ll get to see more of Harry, as well? Maybe get the old gang back together again?” She nudged his foot under the table, and his stomach dropped. He wasn’t sure anything would make that happen.

Lucius returned just then, three plates of food balanced expertly in his hands. “That would be fun. Some of my happiest memories are of the big summer barbecues we used to throw. You kids would swim and eat and play until you dropped, leaving the adults to drink and chat in peace.”

“It would be so lovely to have another summer like that,” Narcissa agreed, face alight with laughter—laughter that quickly faded when she realized why such a thing wouldn’t be possible. “But of course, it wouldn’t be the same without Maggie.”

Draco nodded, taking a bite of casserole to avoid having to say anything.

When dinner was over, the dishes had been done, and he’d said goodnight to both his parents, Draco lay in bed, staring at his ceiling. He wondered how life would be different if he and Harry were still friends. Would he have ever dated Astoria? Would he have been there for Hermione when her mom died? Would he have taken school more seriously, got better grades, had more options for his future?

He sighed, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. It was no use thinking about what if’s of the past. He needed to focus on the future. And the future involved getting Astoria back. He could figure out the rest after that.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

Draco’s first four classes of the day dragged by, but he did his best to pay attention in each one, even going so far as to take notes in the Econ class he shared with Astoria. He noticed her watching him, and applied himself even harder to paying attention to their teacher’s monotone lecture about the stock market.

When the lunch bell rang, he leapt out of his seat, hurrying out the classroom door and down the hallway. He heard Goyle call his name, but merely lifted two fingers in a wave, not bothering to stop.

In the parking lot, Hermione was waiting for him again. She had her elbows propped on top of his car, and was wearing a black leather jacket over a tanktop and shorts. _Short_ shorts.

Draco nearly tripped over his own feet as his eyes traveled helplessly from the top of her shoes—black Chuck Taylors today—to the frayed hem of her shorts. “What the fuck,” he whispered, swallowing hard. Had she always had legs like that?

Just then, Hermione turned her head, eyes meeting his. A smile spread across her face, her even white teeth flashing. Draco’s pulse sped up. That was… weird. But he smiled back, jogging the last few steps to his car. 

“Hey,” he said, pulling open her door for her. She arched her brows, but slid in without comment.

“How’s your day so far?” Hermione asked him once they’d made it out of the parking lot. 

He shrugged. “Not bad, actually. I took notes in Econ.”

“Nice,” she replied, and sounded like she meant it. “I’m already rubbing off on you.”

He smiled back, but then she crossed her legs, and he had to tear his eyes away from her to avoid getting them into an accident.

A few minutes later they were standing in line together at a little hole-in-the-wall burger joint, waiting for their turn to order. Draco took a deep breath, leaning in close to her. Her hair tickled his nose. It smelled nice, some kind of floral scent. Much different from the sugary-sweet vanilla shampoo Astoria used. “Hey. Don’t freak out, but I’m going to touch you.”

Her eyes darted to his face, expression suspicious. “Why?”

Despite himself, he laughed. “Because we have a connection, remember? And because I just saw Crabbe’s truck pull up. It’s showtime.”

She took a deep breath, then nodded and moved closer to him. He stepped into her, pressing his side against hers. His hand came up to gently play with the ends of her curls, pulling at them like he used to do in seventh grade, when his favorite pastime had been riling her up. 

Instead of the glare she’d send him back then, she now shot him a teasing smile, scrunching her nose up and sticking out her tongue. A fluttering feeling started in his stomach, which he dismissed as nerves, just as the door swung open and his friends entered. 

Crabbe and Goyle stomped into the restaurant, Crabbe’s braying laugh drawing everyone’s attention. Everyone’s except Hermione’s, that was, as she continued staring up at Draco. Her eyes went a bit wide with what looked a lot like panic, and Draco felt the fluttering in his stomach intensify. 

She was afraid. Afraid of his friends’ reactions, afraid of what he’d say or do when faced with the reality of pretending to date someone like her. 

He frowned. He knew he could be an asshole sometimes, but he’d made her a deal. He wasn’t going to back out now. 

The line moved, and it was suddenly their turn to order. Draco placed his hand on Hermione’s waist, guiding her toward the window, leaning in close again to whisper, “We’ve got this,” in her ear. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco was aware of Crabbe and Goyle standing frozen in the doorway of the restaurant, mouths open in surprise. He ignored them, instead fishing out his wallet to pay for lunch. Only when they’d placed their order and moved to a small table did Crabbe lurch into motion. 

“Draco?” he said stupidly, and Draco had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. What did Crabbe think—that someone was impersonating him?

Instead, he turned toward his friend. “Hey, Crabbe.”

Goyle trailed just behind Crabbe, his beady eyes darting back and forth rapidly between Draco and Hermione. “Draco? Uh, what are you doing, man?”

Draco reached across the table, taking one of Hermione’s hands and massaging the tension from her fingertips. 

“Having lunch with Hermione.”

Goyle’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “But—but what about Astoria?”

An easy shrug. “We broke up.”

Crabbe made a choking sound. 

“You two better get in line if you want to eat before lunch is over,” Draco said, eyes never leaving Hermione’s face. He was rewarded with a grunt from Crabbe and Goyle, and a smirk from Hermione.

“Lucky for us, they like food more than drama,” Draco murmured.

Hermione sighed, seeming to relax in her chair. The relaxation lasted throughout their brief lunch, their drive back to school, and their walk to their fifth period classes—that is, until Draco put his arm around her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, entire body going stiff.

He smirked down at her, enjoying the little furrow that appeared between her brows when she was annoyed. “Walking my girlfriend to class?”

“Is it necessary to touch me again? No one we know is around.” She looked wildly in all directions, as though she had to be sure.

“Not at the moment, they’re not. But so what? These were your terms, remember? ‘No sneaking around’ because ‘you’re a fucking catch.’” He grinned, pulling her a bit closer as they approached the music hall, where her next class was held. 

She scowled up at him, grumbling under her breath about eidetic memory and convenient timing, but her protest was short-lived. 

For just at that moment, when she’d rearranged her face into a smile and wrapped her arm around his waist, the double-doors leading into the music hall burst open.

And Harry Potter walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all enjoying sensitive marshmallow Draco as much as I'm enjoying writing him!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione take their fake dating up a notch.

Hermione knew it had been too easy. The lunch date, the first interaction with Draco’s friends, the walk to her next class—it had all been too easy, and karma was catching up with her. 

Right now, said karma took the form of her messy-haired best friend. 

His green eyes narrowed as his gaze traveled from Draco’s arm around her shoulder to her arm around his waist. His jaw clenched, and he spun on his heel, marching back into the music hall and letting the doors slam behind him.

“Harry!” she called, pulling away from Draco. She felt his hand clutch at hers, but she kept going, tossing a “See you later,” over her shoulder before running after Harry. She registered the crestfallen look on Draco’s face with a wince, but didn’t stop. She could only handle one moody boy at a time, and Harry took priority right now. 

Inside, the hall was crowded and noisy, full of students rushing to their classes or doing some last-minute practicing. Hermione pushed past two girls standing in the middle of the walkway, one holding a large cello case and the other performing vocal warm-ups. Warm-ups that abruptly cut off when her friend gasped, “Oh my god, Katie, is that _Draco Malfoy_?”

Hermione continued down the hall, determined to catch Harry before their music theory class started in approximately—she checked her watch—three minutes. She caught sight of his dark head disappearing into the classroom and cursed—then felt someone’s hand close around her upper arm and growled.

“Malfoy, I said I’d see you—” she whirled around, expecting to see a pouting Draco, but was faced with something even worse: a smug, smirking, superior-looking Cormac McLaggen.

“Malfoy, huh?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and adjusting the shoulder-strap of his backpack, ensuring everyone could still see his name stitched across the front of his letterman’s jacket. “Can’t say that I’ve ever been confused with that idiot, but he seems to get a lot of attention from the ladies, so I’ll take it.”

“He’s not an idiot,” Hermione returned, pulling her arm free from his grasp. “And I have to get to class, so if you’ll excuse me, Cormac, I really don’t have time for your shit right now.”

He chuckled. “I’ll walk you.”

“No need.”

“I insist.”

“Why am I not surprised that you’re foggy on the notion of consent?” she spat, giving an exaggerated shudder and turning her back on him. She marched down the hall, laser-focused on her classroom door and determined to ignore Cormac whistling beside her as he walked.

“So,” he said, voice nonchalant, “saw you with Draco. You two looked awfully friendly. Wouldn’t have taken you for the kind of girl to fall for his...charms.”

She glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He laughed, holding his hands up in front of him. “Ah, sensitive subject. Don’t worry Granger, your dirty little secret’s safe with me.”

Draco’s words from yesterday echoed through her mind: _They’ll believe we’re having sex._

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing he’d been wrong. That people might see them together and not automatically assume that he was only with her for one reason: because she was either tutoring him or screwing him. 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she finally said, “but Draco and I have been talking. Hanging out. I—” she swallowed down her anxiety over the half-truth, “I like him. Don’t be an ass, Cormac.”

He smiled, an upturn of his full lips that made him look like a cartoon villain. “Who, me? I would never. But Hermione"—he leered at her—"anything he can do? I can do better, baby.”

Resisting the urge to vomit, she scowled and stepped away from him. The warning bell rang, letting all students on campus know they had sixty seconds to get to class. 

She made it in ten. 

Harry had taken a seat in the back row. His arms were crossed, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor. His body language practically screamed _leave me alone._

Hermione ignored it, dropping into the chair next to him. She leaned over, vaguely aware of their teacher, Mr. Flitwick, setting up his laptop at the front of the classroom. “Harry, I know what that looked like—”

His head snapped toward her. “What it _looked_ like was you letting Draco fucking Malfoy put his hands all over you. Which is just—” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as if that could make him unsee Draco and Hermione together, “—just wrong. On so many levels.”

Flitwick had started talking, and Hermione dutifully pulled out her notebook and a pen to copy down the notes being projected, but her attention was on Harry. As quietly as she could, she scooted her desk closer to his, determined to tell him the truth. “We’re not really together,” she whispered. “We’re just pretending. Astoria dumped him”—a flicker of amusement across Harry’s face told her he was listening—“and he asked for my help to get her back.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “And you said yes because...?”

“Because he agreed to pay for the Berklee workshop this summer.”

“The _Berklee—_ ” Harry practically shouted, breaking off when he realized he’d drawn the attention of everyone in the room with his outburst. A mumbled apology and a flash of his signature dimpled smile smoothed things over.

Several minutes passed in silence, in which Hermione could barely concentrate on Flitwick’s droning voice speaking about scales and intervals. She fidgeted at her desk, crossing and re-crossing her legs, tapping her sneaker so quickly against the chair leg in front of her that she earned herself a cutting glare and a hissed suggestion from Parvati Patil that she _“chill the fuck out.”_

“Sorry,” she whispered sincerely, slowly and deliberately placing both feet flat on the ground. Only when Parvati had spun back around did Hermione risk another look at Harry. She found him watching her, a thoughtful look on his face.

“I don’t trust Malfoy,” he said, voice low enough for only her to hear. “But I do trust you. And if you think helping that douche is worth your time and energy, then I won’t do anything to ruin your shot at Berklee.”

She beamed at him. “Thanks, Harry. You’re the best.”

He grumbled a bit, but she saw a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you forget it.”

When class was over, they walked out of the music hall together, passing beneath the shaded canopy of the towering oak trees that lined this side of campus. Hermione lifted her face and smiled as the sun’s light, filtered green by the trees’ leaves, warmed her. This was her favorite place on campus, and she’d miss it when they graduated in a few short months.

She was pulled out of her reverie by Harry muttering furiously under his breath. She arched a brow at him, then followed his gaze to a few feet in front of them. There, standing in the middle of the entrance to the quad—and blocking the path to their next class—was Draco.

His eyes trailed up her body, and she felt a jolt in her stomach at what she saw in them when he met her gaze: a mixture of hurt and, if she didn’t know better, heat. “Let’s get this over with,” she mumbled to Harry, ignoring his squawk of protest as she grabbed his arm. She approached Draco with what she hoped was a confident look on her face, dragging Harry behind her. 

“Hey, Draco.”

“Hey,” he said, shoving both hands in his pockets. He lifted his chin toward Harry. “Potter.”

Harry lifted his chin back. “Malfoy.”

Hermione snorted. Boys. “Good job, you two. I’m so proud of you.” She let go of Harry and stepped toward Draco. “I told him the truth,” she said in a low voice, watching his head jerk toward Harry. “He won’t tell anyone.”

Harry held Draco’s gaze, then nodded once. Whatever meaning Draco got from it seemed to be enough, as he let out a deep sigh that released all the tension from his body. He turned to Hermione with a hint of a smile. “Walk you to your next class?” he offered, holding out his elbow for her.

She accepted with a smile of her own, happy to reward him for what was probably his first positive interaction with Harry in years. With a small wave to Harry over her shoulder, she and Draco entered the quad.

This must be what animals in the zoo felt like, Hermione thought, feeling the eyes of every student in the quad tracking their movement. She resisted the urge to drop her gaze, but her fingers gripped Draco’s arm more tightly, willing him to walk faster. 

“God, Granger, are you trying to cut off my circulation?”

She looked up, finding him smirking down at her. “Sorry,” she mumbled, letting go of his arm. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” he laughed. He reached down, snatching her fingers and sliding his hand around her hip. “No hiding, remember?”

Her cheeks tingled with heat. “What happened to letting people get used to seeing us together?”

She felt pressure on her hip, and then she was right up against him, her right side molded to his left. “That’s what we’re doing. Aren’t you supposed to be smart?”

She huffed out an offended breath, and the smile that broke across his face let her know his goal had been achieved—not only had she relaxed, but a majority of the school had just seen them together, acting like a new couple.

They paused at the entrance to the science hall, a long brick building with tall banks of windows on either side. “This is my stop,” Draco said, turning to face her and somehow managing to pull her even closer. He leaned down, his breath ghosting across her face as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” she said, speaking through gritted teeth that she hoped resembled a close approximation of a smile. She was having trouble thinking clearly while his lips were on her skin and her eyes were level with his chest.

“Nope,” he said, sliding both hands around her waist and giving her a gentle squeeze. “I think you’ll see that I’m a _really_ good boyfriend.”

As she watched him walk away, feeling her heart speed up when he winked at her before disappearing inside Mr. Snape’s physics lab, she realized that that was exactly what she was afraid of.

****

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

****

The rest of the week followed much of the same pattern. She and Draco found each other before school, at break, between classes. They went to lunch together every day, working their way up to the most popular lunch spots in town—which had the added benefit of hosting most of their fellow upperclassmen, so they always had a captive audience. 

An audience that often included Astoria Greengrass. Percy Weasley had apparently returned to Stanford to finish out his spring quarter, so Astoria was usually accompanied by a pack of popular kids, including her twin sister Daphne, Pansy Parkinson, Theo Nott, and Blaise Zabini. Yet despite being surrounded by friends, Hermione had caught Astoria staring at her and Draco on multiple occasions. She made sure to smile a little more brightly, laugh a little more freely, touch a little more openly when she felt Draco’s ex-girlfriend’s eyes on them.

And that was the thing: in addition to becoming more at ease in his company, Hermione also became increasingly familiar with Draco’s touch. His hand at the small of her back. His fingers twining in her curls. His lips brushing her cheek as he murmured something in her ear or sent her off to class with a sweet, chaste kiss. She was slightly alarmed with how natural it felt to reciprocate; to take his hand, brush his hair out of his eyes, slide her arm around his waist. 

He, in turn, became increasingly familiar with the single-minded, task-master persona Hermione employed when it came to her responsibilities. Every night, they’d call or FaceTime about their homework. They’d often end up chatting about other things—lighter topics like their current Netflix binges or favorite social media influencers; heavier topics like their parents, Harry, or Astoria—but only after she’d first made sure that she was doing her “job” and making over Draco’s intellectual image. 

To that end, she gave him homework assignments of her own. First up was reading a book on the causes and effects of income inequality in America. When he was finished with that, she had _How to be an Anti-Racist_ ready and waiting, complete with color-coded sticky notes on important passages. 

During their nightly chats, she was impressed to find that not only was Draco a fast reader, but that he had a remarkable memory and an ability to quickly synthesize what he’d read and apply it to the world around him. 

It was no secret that these were qualities Hermione found appealing, prior middle school crush on him notwithstanding. 

She had to remind herself often—sometimes quite sternly—that this wasn’t real. They weren’t dating. They weren’t even really friends. 

But when he smiled at her? When he laughed at something she said? When he took her hand in his? 

Well.

She found it quite easy to get caught up.

By Friday afternoon, when the final bell rang and everyone gratefully emptied out of the school for the weekend, Hermione felt exhausted. It had only been five days since she and Draco had quite literally been thrown back together, but it felt so much longer. At this pace, she was going to have a nervous breakdown by the time their charade was over.

She stood at her locker, staring blankly into its metal depths, when she felt Draco’s strong arms wrap around her shoulders from behind. “Hey, Granger,” he said, voice low and teasing, letting her know they had an audience. She blinked, arranging her face into a more _girlfriend_ -ish expression, then turning and sliding her hands around his waist.

“Hey, Malfoy.” Her brain knew this was just for show, but apparently no one had told her body. A fluttering sensation unfolded in her chest, increasing in intensity as Draco’s smirking mouth descended to her forehead. She pushed the fluttering back down, smothering it as she wrested control back from her traitorous heart. 

“Ready for our big date tomorrow?” Draco asked. She nodded, closing her locker and letting him pull her toward the parking lot. They’d planned a weekend outing to the de Young Museum in San Francisco, which was currently hosting an exhibit on Frida Kahlo. San Francisco was only about an hour away, and Draco had offered to drive, as Hermione’s car was both a) still out of commission, and b) a climate-change inducing gas guzzler, according to Draco.

He drove her home, and they chatted about their plans for their day trip to the city. 

“We can have lunch in Golden Gate Park before we drive back home,” Hermione suggested, ever practical. 

Draco grimaced, but nodded in agreement. “As long as we can have something normal, like sandwiches.”

“Boring,” she drawled, pleased at the smile she saw tugging at his pouty lips. “But fine. I’ll make sure to include a sandwich for you in the lunch I pack.”

“You’re too good to me,” he said, reaching over to tug at a curl as he pulled up in front of her house. She swatted his hand away, but he caught her fingers in his, bringing them halfway to his lips before he froze, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he mumbled, dropping her hand. A faint blush colored his cheeks. 

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “See you in the morning?”

He nodded, eyes on the steering wheel. “See you then.”

She watched him drive away, wondering if maybe he, too, was having a hard time separating fact from fiction.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

****

Hermione and her dad sat on their porch swing bright and early Saturday morning, a soft-sided cooler full of fruit, cheese, and a foot-long turkey sandwich resting between their feet. 

Sam Granger rocked the swing slowly with his foot, humming under his breath and tapping his fingers against one knee. Hermione fidgeted beside him, the pair of them unable to sit still to save their lives. It used to drive her mom crazy.

She smiled at the memory. Sam glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and laughed gruffly, obviously having a similar train of thought. “‘Hummingbird,’” he murmured, taking her hand. “She used to call you that.”

“I remember,” Hermione said, squeezing his fingers. “Papa Bird,” she added, feeling her eyes mist when he squeezed back.

He cleared his throat, running his free hand over the weekend stubble covering his square jaw. “So is Draco always late, or only when you have to drive in heavy traffic?” 

She rolled her eyes. “He’s not usually late, Dad. He texted to see if I wanted a coffee.”

“Ah,” Sam nodded. “Smart man. The way to my daughter’s heart is through her caffeine intake.”

“Ha. And I told you, my heart is not involved.”

He said nothing, only observed her for so long that she began to fidget again.

“Stop it, Dad. I told you, Draco and I know what we’re doing. I’m helping him get his girlfriend back, and he’s helping me achieve my lifelong dream of becoming a songwriter.”

Sam arched his brows. “Seems like a fair trade. Although I told you I’d pay for your workshop.”

“Yeah, but I know we can’t afford—” she broke off when he held up a hand, a pained expression on his face. She knew it was hard for him to admit that things had been tough since her mom died. The joint dentistry practice that her parents had opened after they were married served low-income patients, and now with only one salary, a mortgage, car payments, and mountains of medical bills they were _still_ trying to find their way out from under, Hermione knew money was often tight.

Hermione had a small college account that her parents had set up when she was a baby, had worked diligently at Pho King for the past two years to save up more money, and planned to take advantage of the two free years of community college all Californians were entitled to, but she still felt guilty asking her dad for anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. And the songwriter workshop at Berklee was just that: a daydream. A mirage that shimmered just out of her reach until Draco asked for her help and she saw an opportunity. She wasn’t necessarily proud of herself for her request, but she was nothing if not practical.

As if she’d conjured him by feeling guilty about taking his money, his Tesla rounded the corner to her street, rolling to a silent stop in front of her house. Draco climbed out, pale hair covered by the hood of his sweatshirt. He jogged up the driveway, careful to not let his all-white Air Jordans touch the freshly-mowed grass of her lawn.

“Hey, Dr. Granger!” he said, flashing a smile before looking at her. “Ready, Hermione? I’ve got your extra hot matcha soy latte ready and waiting.” He turned back to her dad. “Has she always liked the color green, or is it limited to the things she drinks?”

Sam chuckled. “Apparently, she’s part panda bear.”

“And on that note, we’re leaving.” Hermione stood, leaning over to give her dad a kiss on the cheek before heading down the steps.

“Koala bear?” he called after them. She shook her head fondly, ignoring Draco’s laughter as he jogged ahead of her to open her car door.

“We’ll text you when we get there, Dr. Granger!” he called, and then they were off.

Their town was small by California standards, nestled in the agricultural heart of the Central Valley. It only took them a few minutes to make their way out of it, heading past small shopping centers and the large weekend farmer’s market set up around a huge fountain at the city center. Soon, they were on the highway and speeding toward the Bay Area.

The drive went by quickly, as most of the time was spent bickering over what to listen to—he wanted Childish Gambino, she wanted Pod Save America, they compromised and listened to both—and the next thing Hermione knew, they were pulling into the parking garage near the museum.

Inside, they wandered through the exhibit, Hermione taking special care to point out important paintings and share details she remembered from her notes. She’d stayed up until 11:30 the night before, refreshing her memory on the legendary Mexican artist.

The vivid colors of the paintings drew and held Hermione’s attention, but she felt Draco shuffling his feet beside her. She glanced at him. “Something wrong?”

He shrugged, seeming to hold an internal debate before speaking. “I’m just wondering why she included a unibrow and moustache in all her self-portraits. If I was going to paint a picture of myself, I’d probably edit out my flaws.”

“Well, that’s one of the things she’s most celebrated for,” Hermione said, gesturing at the painting in front of them. In it, Frida Kahlo sat, unsmiling, a monkey on her right shoulder and a black cat on her left. A crown of butterflies sat atop her head, and a necklace of thorns circled her neck, pricking her skin and causing her to bleed. “Instead of reducing women to stereotypes, she challenged people to see and celebrate women as they actually are. ‘Flaws’ and all.” 

Draco blanched. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” she said, smiling to let him know she wasn’t offended. “She had polio when she was a child. Was almost killed in a bus accident when she was young, and suffered constant, chronic pain over her whole life. Had a tumultuous relationship with her husband, suffered from infertility caused by her accident, just—” she stopped, breath catching in her throat. Draco made a soft noise, moving toward her. 

She shook her head, curls tumbling over her shoulders with the force of her movement. “She didn’t have an easy life, in any way. And yet she created things of such beauty, which mean so much—still, to this day. Look at this, for example.” She gestured again at the painting in front of them. “Look at how much pain she is in, with those thorns tearing at her skin. Look at the—” she broke off with a small gasp, her eyes catching something she hadn’t noticed before, “—the hummingbird on the thorns. There’s so much symbolism in this painting.” She flipped through her notes, speaking more quickly with the excitement she always felt when puzzle pieces fell into place in her mind. “She painted this after her divorce from her husband. A hummingbird is usually a symbol of falling in love in Mexican culture, but this one is dead, like her love. And the monkey—”

“Could symbolize her husband, who gave her a monkey as a gift,” Draco read over her shoulder, smiling sheepishly when she turned her wide-eyed gaze on him. “It’s hurting her by pulling at the thorns around her neck. And even I know that a black cat is a symbol of bad luck.” He moved to stand beside her, bracing both hands on the metal railing that kept visitors from getting too close to the priceless works of art. He looked at the painting, then locked eyes with her once more. “This painting shows her suffering. But it also shows her enduring it. Surviving, despite the odds. She used her pain to fuel her art. It’s pretty amazing.”

She blinked, exhaling a shaky breath. He was standing close to her. Very close. Too close. She needed to put some space between them. _Now._

She turned, heading toward another part of the exhibit that showcased some of Kahlo’s dresses, reading the commentary on how the clothes she wore spoke to her feelings on gender, heritage, and identity. Draco followed silently, standing close to read with her.

An hour later, they walked out of the museum, down the front steps and across a short walkway to the Music Concourse in Golden Gate Park, where benches and trees stretched between the art museum they’d just left and the California Academy of Sciences across the street.

Draco ran to the parking garage to fetch their lunch, while Hermione wandered the paved walkway, smiling at the group of elderly men and women being guided through a Tai Chi class in a shaded, grassy section of the concourse. Finding an empty bench nearby, she sat, taking in the sights around her as she waited for Draco to return.

She didn’t have to wait long. He bounded out of the parking garage, a grin splitting his face as he saw her. For a moment, she let herself pretend that he was her boyfriend, that they were on a special date in the city. That his grin wasn’t because he was hungry and knew she’d made him a sandwich, but because he was excited to be spending time with her. She let herself take in his long legs, the smooth, muscled skin of his arms—visible now that he’d shed his hoodie when he’d grabbed their lunch—and the silky blonde hair that she’d found she quite enjoyed pushing back off his forehead.

She let herself have just a few moments where they weren’t Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, but just—themselves. Free from stereotypes, free from their high school personas, free from baggage.

Draco skidded to a stop next to the bench, dropping the cooler on the ground near her feet. “That museum was cool. I think my parents actually brought me here once before,” he continued, unzipping the cooler and fishing out the glass container of grapes and strawberries she’d packed. “When they had an exhibit on King Tut? I used to be really into Ancient Egypt.” He handed her the food she’d packed for herself before rummaging for his sandwich, letting out a sigh of relief when the wax paper she’d wrapped it in crinkled beneath his fingers. “Ah, there you are, my darling,” he said to the sandwich, and Hermione laughed, amused despite herself at his love for “normal” food. 

They ate in silence for a while, Hermione’s brain whirring until she could contain it no longer. “You were really into Ancient Egypt,” she finally said, arching a brow at him.

He finished chewing his enormous mouthful of sandwich, wiping a bit of mustard off his lip and washing down his food with a swallow from his water bottle. “Um, yes? Don’t make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t,” she frowned. “But I’m confused. You told me you need to become more ‘intellectual’ for Astoria to want you back. Correct me if I’m wrong, Draco, but most teenage boys aren’t just casually interested in Ancient Egypt.”

“It was before we were teenagers—”

“That King Tut exhibit was here when we were in eighth grade. My parents brought me, too. We were thirteen, i.e. the definition of a teenager.”

“Well—”

“And furthermore,” she continued, cutting off his sputtered protest, “you were _always_ one of the smartest kids in middle school. I used to stare daggers at the back of your head in Ms. McGonagall’s English class, because you always beat me to answering those riddles she used to give us at the end of the day.”

He shifted on the bench. “Are you going to let me talk yet?”

“No!” she said, louder than she’d meant to. “No,” she repeated, “I’m not. What the hell, Draco? You were smart. You’re _still_ smart. You are a good listener, a quick learner, and you actually care about the stuff you learn.”

“So?” He crossed his arms on the bench, a mulish expression thinning his lips and setting his jaw.

She leaned forward, smacking his arm with the back of her hand. “So why doesn’t Astoria seem to know any of that about you?” 

“Motherfu—” he rubbed his arm. “Why do you always hit me?” 

She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting for him to answer.

He sighed, mumbling under his breath and brushing an invisible speck of dirt off his shoe before speaking again. “Listen, Freud-mione, we aren’t doing this so you can psychoanalyze me. Stop that,” he added, grabbing both of her hands when she tried to hit him again for his reference to the famous psychologist. “But if you want the truth— _if you want the truth,_ ” he repeated, pulling her toward him and wrapping his arms around her upper body, deftly preventing her from assaulting him further, “then she doesn’t know because I never showed her that part of me.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, so close to him that she could see the individual hairs that made up his annoyingly perfect eyelashes. 

He closed his eyes, sighing again before releasing her arms. “I don’t know. Because I didn’t think that she’d think it was cool? Because none of my friends knew or even cared that I was smart, that I’d always liked school, that there was more to me than my ability to shoot a three-pointer or tread water with only my legs for an hour.”

“Your friends cared,” Hermione said softly, not allowing herself to be distracted by the mental image of Draco treading water.

“You and Harry, yeah, of course,” he replied, eyes on the ground. “But then we—then we weren’t friends anymore.” His breath hitched, and the eyes he turned back toward her broke her heart. “I wasn’t smart enough for you guys, and I was too smart for my new friends. I felt pretty alone. So I—I don’t know. I adapted. Changed.”

“I’m sorry, Draco.” She reached a hand up, fingers tracing softly over his shoulders, rubbing a soothing pattern into the muscles of his back. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, a crooked smile appearing on his face.

“Thanks for not hitting me again.”

“You’re welcome.”

After a little while, Hermione spoke, fingers still skating across the soft material of his shirt. “I felt pretty alone for awhile, too. After my mom—” the word caught in her throat, but she pushed it out, “—died. Even before that, when she was sick. I really only had Harry. And my dad, of course.”

It was his turn to reach out, to encircle her shoulders with his arms and pull her head into his chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the heat and moisture of tears recede with the slow, gentle sifting of his fingers through her hair.

“I’m so, so sorry, Hermione.” His voice was gruff, but sincere. “I hope you know how much I mean that. That it happened, and that you were alone.”

She nodded against his shoulder, sniffling before pulling back. 

They sat in silence, eyes dancing between the ground, the Tai Chi class, the museums on either side of the concourse. Anywhere but on each other. Hermione wondered if eye contact felt as dangerous to Draco as it did to her right now, so soon after their feelings and emotions had been laid bare.

They finished their lunch, and in the wake of their fragile reconciliation of the past, made their way back to Draco’s car. They drove home in near-silence, the low tones of a Top 40 Spotify playlist lulling Hermione into a peaceful doze as they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, her consciousness stuck somewhere between dreaming and being awake.

When he pulled up to her house a little over an hour later, she hesitated, unsure of what to say. Thank you seemed wrong. So did mentioning their deal. But simply getting out of the car without saying something was unthinkable.

In the end, Draco beat her to the answer, just like old times. He reached over, taking her hand in his. “I had a nice time today, Granger,” he said softly, eyes on hers and face unreadable. “Want to hang out tomorrow?”

“We don’t have anything scheduled—”

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean like that. I meant just hang out. As friends.”

Hermione’s heart lurched in her chest. “Oh! Um, yeah I’d like that.” He smiled, and her heart lurched again. “I have to work tomorrow, but I’ll be free after 3:00. Maybe you could come over and we could watch a movie and do our homework?”

He nodded. “That actually sounds great. Thanks, Granger.”

She climbed out of the car, then proceeded to stand in her front yard like an idiot as she watched him drive away. 

After dropping the cooler in the kitchen and giving Crookshanks a good scratch behind the ears, she finally took refuge in her room. Kicking off her shoes, she climbed onto her bed, snuggling beneath a blanket and pulling out her phone. She flipped through the pictures from earlier that day, smiling at the selfie Draco had taken of them in front of the museum. He’d called it an ode to Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits, and they’d posed solemn, unsmiling—until Draco turned at the last moment to press a kiss to Hermione’s temple. He’d snapped a picture at the same instant, and Hermione looked at herself, saw her radiant smile and her hand curled into the fabric of his hoodie.

“It’s not real,” she reminded herself quietly. Then, even more quietly, as she felt her traitorous heart begin fluttering at the lie: “Oh, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, HUGE THANKS to both Pacific Rimbaud and Rose Harper Maxwell for their time and alpha/beta skills. We're all in very good hands here.
> 
> Check out the Pinterest boards for this story if you want to see the de Young Museum, the Music Concourse, and the Frida Kahlo painting they were looking at (which is actually located in Texas, not San Francisco).


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco works through feelings of confusion. The gang volunteers at an animal shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with me as I write this! Holidays and life slowed this chapter WAY down, but I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Fair warning: It is super indulgent on my part. You'll see what I mean. :)
> 
> Big, big thanks as always to PacificRimbaud and RoseHarperMaxwell for having excellent suggestions and being the best enablers for my nonsense.

It had been three weeks since Astoria dumped him, three weeks since he’d hatched his plan to get her back, three weeks since Hermione had agreed to pretend she was his girlfriend. 

Draco had never been more confused in his entire life.

Hermione made him feel—well, _off._ He didn’t quite know how to explain it. 

He’d loved Astoria for years. Loved her still, he was sure of it. When he thought of her, he felt warmth spread through his chest, though it was tinged with the still-tender bruise of their breakup. But when he thought of Hermione—of her smile and her hair and her patience with him, of the exasperation on her face when he’d tease her? Of the vulnerability she masked with clothes and jewelry and a tough facade?

He felt raw.

He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe from the things that made her life difficult. 

To talk to her much more than their arrangement required. To hear her opinion on an article he’d read or something his math teacher had said about code-breaking during World War Two. 

To bask in her attention as she asked him questions and really listened to his answers, like he was someone worth listening to. 

To be soothed by the feel of her fingers carding into his hair, holding his hand, and stroking gently across his shoulder blades.

To say he’d changed over the past three weeks would be an understatement. He hardly recognized himself anymore as Draco Malfoy, popular athlete and senior class king. Instead, he was uncovering more and more pieces of who he used to be: Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black. Draco Malfoy, who could name all the emperors of ancient Rome, and not just that Nero dick. Draco Malfoy, who’d enjoyed an off-Broadway performance of _Wicked_ so much that he’d bought the soundtrack. 

Draco Malfoy, friend of Hermione Granger. 

And now, right this very minute, he was Draco Malfoy, active participant in Mr. Lupin’s discussion about the absolute fucking bloodbath in the final scene of _Hamlet,_ which he was able to do because he was also Draco Malfoy, person who actually does his homework. 

When he’d raised his hand and commented on the nature of revenge in the play, how it was responsible for all the characters either losing the ones they loved or their own lives, he thought Lupin was going to fall off his desk. Instead, he’d blinked, adjusted his tie, and said, “Quite right, Draco,” before continuing the discussion. He’d come back to ask Draco— _Draco_ —several follow-up questions, soliciting his opinion on Horatio, Fortinbras, and the future of Denmark in the play. Draco felt his chest swell with pride, and couldn’t wait until class was over so he could tell Hermione about the whole thing.

When the bell rang, he practically floated out of the classroom. He strutted down the hall, heading toward their normal break-time meeting spot in the quad. Just as he was about to round the corner, he heard someone call his name, and then a delicate hand was on his forearm.

Not Hermione’s hand. 

Astoria’s.

“Draco?” she said again, voice wavering with what sounded like nerves. He turned, looking directly into her eyes for the first time since their break-up. They were as blue as ever, their color heightened by her pale blue sundress. She bit her lower lip, twisting her silvery-blonde hair around the fingers of her free hand, somehow managing to still look beautiful, even in the face of distress. Only it was weird, Draco thought. Coming face to face with her beauty used to make it hard for him to breathe. Now, he just felt… nothing.

“Oh. Hey, Astoria,” he said, keeping his tone casual. This is what he’d been waiting for, right? For her to notice the changes in him, realize her mistake, approach him to say she wanted to be together again? Shouldn’t he feel something? “Did you need something?”

She took a deep breath, a small puff of air escaping from between her lips before she answered. “Well, first I wanted to apologize again. I’m so sorry for hurting you, and—”

“No worries, Astoria.” He was light. Carefree. And surprised to find it wasn’t that hard to pretend their break-up didn’t bother him. If he was really honest with himself, he didn’t think he was pretending at all. “I know your family and the Weasleys go way back. Kind of like me and Hermione, ya know? I get it.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Yes, I’ve known Percy since we were kids. But—”

“And you and I will be in different places next year. Literally. You’re going to Stanford and I’m—well, I’m exploring my options, with Hermione’s help. She’ll be in Boston this summer for a workshop at Berklee College of Music—you’ve heard of it, right?”

“Of course, but—”

“Anyway, like I said, it makes sense for us not to be together anymore. I’m not upset, thanks to Hermione. She’s been a really good friend to me lately.”

Astoria’s eyes narrowed. “You look like you’re more than friends.”

He smirked. Shrugged. Looked around. “Did you need anything else, Astoria?”

She nodded, looking frustrated. “Well, I thought we should probably talk about prom. Did you—did you still want to go together?”

“Oh,” he said, tilting his head like he hadn’t thought about it before now. “I guess I just assumed you’d be going with Percy. I need to talk to Hermione and see what she wants to do. We might just skip the prom altogether. Hermione’s been dying to go to a poetry slam in Sacramento, so I might just take her there instead.”

“A—a poetry—oh.” Her eyes widened with surprise. “Okay. Right. Well, I guess I’ll see if Percy can come home that weekend.”

“Yeah, you do that.” He smiled and turned his back on her, only slightly ashamed at the glee he felt unspooling in his belly with each step he took away from her. While he didn’t want to hurt Astoria, per se, he _did_ want her to know that she’d been wrong about him. That she shouldn’t have been so quick to write him off. That he was, in Hermione’s words, a fucking catch.

His glee only intensified when he stepped out into the sunshine of the mid-April morning. There, sitting on a stone bench and scribbling furiously in a small, leather-bound notebook, was Hermione.

The breeze drifting through the quad spiraled her hair into a soft halo, held away from her face by the sunglasses perched on top of her head. She wore a long black skirt and a stretchy tee with a picture of Shakespeare and the words “Prose before Hos” written on the front. Tied in a knot at her waist, it pulled the fabric tight across her— 

Draco blinked, shaking his head as if he could physically redirect his mind from its increasingly frequent contemplation of the finer points of his fake girlfriend’s body. 

As though she could sense his inner turmoil, Hermione lifted her head and saw him, a smile breaking out across her face that made his chest feel warm and tight. She stood, brushing a bit of non-existent dirt off the back of her skirt. Draco fought an intense battle with his eyes, not allowing them to follow the motion of her hand.

Instead, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed a kiss to her temple, telling himself that people were watching, so he needed to keep up the charade. It wasn’t because it felt completely natural or he wanted to touch her or anything. “Hey, Granger. What are you writing?”

To his surprise, she blushed and quickly shoved the notebook back into her bag. “Oh? Um, nothing.”

“A poem dedicated to my beauty and brains?”

She smiled. “Something like that.”

His fingers trailed lightly across the exposed skin of her side, and he felt her shiver. “Seriously, I’m curious now. Was it the latest entry in your burn book? Your plans for world domination? The secret ingredient you put in those chocolate chip cookies you brought over that my dad _cannot_ shut up about?”

Her laugh rang out across the quad, but Draco barely registered the stares they received as they made their way to their next classes. His attention was singularly focused on the feel of her skin beneath his hand, the blush on her cheeks, the smell of her that swirled around him and made him feel almost dizzy with that same confusing feeling he’d been experiencing for weeks now—a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

“Not to change the subject,” she said, obviously trying to change the subject, “but I have to talk to you about something.”

“I have to talk to you about something, too,” he said, keeping up the slow trail of his fingers—up and down, side to side. “You go first.”

She grimaced, pulling them to a stop in a breezeway. “You’re not going to like mine.”

He shrugged, still on an adrenaline high from his encounter with Astoria, not to mention a contact high from the silky skin of Hermione’s waist. “You probably won’t like mine either.”

Her brows drew together, forming a tiny vertical line in the middle of her forehead. Draco had a sudden, insane urge to trace it with his lips. “Wait, what’s yours?”

He reached out to smooth the line from her brow before letting his hand trail into the curls surrounding her shoulders. Her hair was soft, inviting, like a warm blanket on a cold morning. “Nothing major. Just that I talked to Astoria a few minutes ago.”

She let out a quiet noise of surprise. Her eyes darted over his face, as if she were searching for something. “Oh?”

He nodded, letting his hands trail down her arms, threading their fingers together as he caught her up on his conversation with Astoria. She smiled when he told her the part about the poetry slam he’d made up, but a wary look remained on her face even after he finished. “So, I don’t know if you’re up for it,” he said, trying to fill the awkward silence that had sprung up in the wake of his ex-girlfriend’s name, “but do you want to go to prom with me?”

She inhaled slowly, dropping her eyes to the ground between them before answering. “Are you sure?”

He scoffed, taken aback by her question. “What do you mean, ‘Am I sure?’ Of course I’m sure. It will make Astoria _insanely_ jealous, obviously. Plus,” he added as he watched her lips press into a thin line, “it’ll be really fun. To go with you, I mean. I like hanging out with you, Hermione. I want to stay friends, even if Astoria and I eventually get back together.”

“Don’t you mean _when?_ ” Her eyes lifted to his.

He raised one shoulder in an easy shrug. No, he realized, he didn’t mean when.

“Ok,” she said quietly, gaze returning to the ground. “Then I’ll go with you, I guess.”

“Don’t sound so excited, Granger,” he teased, placing a finger beneath her chin. “My ego will never recover.”

One side of her mouth lifted in a smile, but the look didn’t reach her eyes. Draco frowned, not quite sure what to make of her behavior. 

“Your turn,” he said, smiling down at her. “What did you need to tell me?”

Her expression abruptly changed, going from mostly unreadable to completely guilty. “Don’t get mad,” she said. 

Draco felt the hair lift on the back of his neck in anticipation. 

“You know how Mr. Hagrid is offering extra credit for community service?” 

Draco nodded. He and Hermione weren’t in the same class, but all seniors had Mr. Hagrid for an independent living class. 

“Well,” she continued, letting go of his hands, “I signed us up to work at the animal shelter this weekend.”

“Okay…” he said, unsure of why she thought he’d have a problem with that. He’d never had a pet, but he didn’t hate the idea of working with animals. 

“With Harry,” she said in a rush, then leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek before disappearing with a swish of her black skirt.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**

Harry lived on the same side of town as Draco, in a big brick house that looked like it belonged in the English countryside. As he parked in front of the curb and made his way to the front door, Draco was flooded with memories from what felt like another lifetime.

The giant oak tree in the front yard had provided the childhood backdrop for countless imaginary battles with monsters and dragons. He and Harry had been knights of the Round Table, armed with cardboard swords and shields that Harry’s mom had helped them make. He could still see their initials carved waist-high in the tree’s bark—the highest point their six-year-old arms had been able to reach.

The large window panes of the front sitting room had been broken accidentally when they were nine, a casualty of Little League pitching and batting practice. Their dads had driven them around all summer, lawnmower in tow, to cut their neighbors’ grass and raise enough money to pay for the damage.

A play structure, barely visible over the back fence, was where he and Harry had spent many nights staying up late in the last innocent days of middle school, trying to scare each other with ghost stories and whispering about the girls they liked. On those nights, it felt like they’d be best friends for the rest of their lives, with nothing more to worry about than who was going to be the first to start shaving.

Draco hopped up the steps to the front porch, shaking his head clear of the past as he lifted his hand to ring the doorbell. He and Harry were different now. They weren’t friends, hadn’t been friends in years. But when the echoing _bong_ of the doorbell was followed by quick footsteps in the tiled entryway, when the door was pulled open and the sunny, welcoming smile of Lily Potter greeted him, accompanied by an enthusiastic shriek and hug...

Draco let himself pretend. 

Pretend that things were just like they used to be. That life was simple and good. That it made sense and was fair. That Harry was his best friend, Hermione was his girlfriend, and this weekend they’d all hang out together in his parents’ backyard, barbecuing and swimming and staying up late to watch movies and talk about everything and nothing.

“Draco!” Lily’s voice brought him back once more to the present, and he beamed back at her, genuinely happy to see her again. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Potter.”

She threw her head back and cackled, taking him by the hand and pulling him into the entryway. “I know you remember my name, Draco. It hasn’t been _that_ long.” She looped her arm through his, leading him down a familiar hallway to the living room. 

Lily was a photographer, and the Potters’ home reflected her artistic nature. Framed photographs covered the walls of the living room, a few of which Draco was surprised to see himself and Hermione in. A rich turquoise velvet sofa held dominion over the room, while various plants and books covered every available flat surface. An upright piano painted eggplant purple sat against one wall, a battered guitar case leaning against its side.

Lily led Draco to the sofa, telling him that the other volunteers were sure to be there soon, then disappeared through the arched doorway into the kitchen with a promise of freshly-brewed iced tea.

He fidgeted nervously, leaning down to rub at a smudge of dirt on his shoe. Footsteps brought his head snapping up again, but instead of Lily coming back in from the kitchen, he saw Harry, bounding down the stairs.

Harry’s sneakers screeched to a stop against the hardwood floor, eyes widening in temporary surprise before he carefully re-schooled his features into a more neutral expression. 

“Hermione said you were coming,” he finally said, moving to sit on the opposite end of the sofa.

Draco nodded hesitantly, feeling wrong-footed in the absence of their usual animosity toward one another.

Harry reached up with both hands, pushing his hair back from his forehead. Draco noticed the faint lightning-shaped scar on Harry’s forehead, a souvenir from crashing their bikes while trying to ride down the side of a drainage ditch. “Is it part of your plan?” 

Draco lifted his brows. “My plan?”

“You know,” Harry rolled his eyes, “to make Astoria want you back?”

“Oh,” Draco said, feeling stupid. “No. Hermione told me we were volunteering at the animal shelter, so I showed up. It has nothing to do with Astoria.”

Harry just looked at him for a long moment, and Draco felt him weighing the truth of his words. Finally, Harry sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Well, good. I don’t want Hermione to be hurt any more than necessary.”

“Hurt? You think I’m going to hurt her?” 

“You think you’re not?”

“No!” Draco said, angrier than he’d realized. “I would never hurt her. I—I care about her. You know,” he added, when Harry’s expression turned smug. “As a friend.”

“She said you guys are going to prom together?”

Draco frowned. “Is that a question?”

To his surprise, Harry smiled. “I don’t know, man. You tell me. I seem to remember you doing a really over-the-top promposal for Astoria, with like, a flower wall and a string quartet in the quad. Did you do that for Hermione?”

“Well, no, but—”

Harry removed his glasses, making a big show of polishing them on the bottom of his shirt. “Do you think Hermione doesn’t deserve that? Doesn’t deserve to feel special?”

“No, of course not—”

“So you admit you should probably put in a little more effort with the whole prom thing, especially if you want everyone to believe you guys are dating and you’re not just using her for sex?”

“I—” Draco broke off, sitting bolt upright. “Are people saying that?”

Harry put his glasses back on, giving Draco a condescending look. “You know they are.”

Draco took a deep breath. His chest felt tight, and his cheeks felt warm. His hands clenched and unclenched, as if they alone could stop the hateful gossip about Hermione. How dare people talk about her like that? They hadn’t even kissed, let alone done anything remotely sexual.

He met Harry’s eyes again. “I’ll fix it,” he said, squaring his jaw. “Will you help me?”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, then approval. He nodded. “What did you have in mind?”

Fifteen minutes later, when Hermione finally arrived, she stopped in her tracks in the doorway of the living room. It must be quite a sight, Draco imagined: him and Harry, sitting next to one another, drinking iced tea and snickering quietly at the plan they were busy hatching.

“Ummm, what is this?” she asked, crossing the room to drop her bag on the coffee table. 

Draco stood immediately, pulling her to him for a hug before offering her his seat. “Just catching up on old times,” he said with a smile. He took a moment before sitting again to admire her hair, pulled up in a topknot, a few loose curls falling around her face; her face, mostly free of makeup but still managing to almost glow in the late morning light; and her fashion choices for the day, a pair of black jeans with holes in the knees and a red shirt with the sleeves cut off.

“Alright,” she said, not sounding the slightest bit convinced. “Are you guys ready?”

“We have to wait for two more people,” Harry said, standing and stretching his arms high above his head. “I don’t know who they are, but my dad said five volunteers signed up for this morning.”

James Potter was a local veterinarian who headed up free spay and neuter clinics at the animal shelter on the weekends. He also recruited student volunteers to clean cages and socialize the shelter animals. Harry didn’t really have a choice about volunteering once in awhile, Draco knew, but he was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t volunteered before now.

As if Draco’s thoughts had summoned him, James jogged into the room, earbuds in and sneakers muddy, obviously fresh from a run. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Draco, a smile stretching across his face. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said, striding over to shake Draco’s hand and pound him on the back. “We’ve missed you, kid,” he added quietly. Draco blinked quickly, surprised at the sudden ache in his chest.

He felt a tap on his arm, and looked down to find Hermione’s hand—free of rings today—palm-up on top of her thigh. By the way she was looking at him, he could tell she was offering comfort and support. He gladly took both, twining his fingers through hers.

“Ah,” James was saying, looking down at the two of them fondly. “I always wondered when you two were going to get together. Nice to see you’ve finally pulled your heads out of your butts.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Draco beat her to it, offering a simple, “Thanks, Mr. Potter.”

On Draco’s other side, Harry snorted.

The doorbell rang, and they all stood to see who the last two volunteers were. When the door swung open, it revealed the last two people Draco ever expected to see: Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass.

Hermione halted abruptly, looking up at him with panic in her eyes. “Did you invite them?” 

“Hell, no,” he whispered, shaking his head forcefully.

“Hi, Mr. Potter!” Daphne said, smiling brightly. “Sorry we’re late. Pansy had a hard time finding the right outfit to wear.” She stepped into the entryway with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

“It was hard to decide which shoes I’d least mind smelling like cat piss,” Pansy drawled, examining her manicure and looking bored. 

Daphne ignored her. “Hey Draco, hey Hermione,” she said pleasantly, flipping her long blonde hair over one shoulder. “Hi, Harry,” she continued softly, smile faltering. Pansy did an eyeroll of her own.

James led them all back to the living room, where he guided them through a brief overview of their duties and expectations over the next few hours. Draco gave him his full attention—at least, as full as he could, seeing as how he was still holding Hermione’s hand. She’d pulled their joined hands into her lap, tracing her fingers up and down the skin of his forearm and shooting occasional glances toward Pansy and Daphne. Her touch felt different, almost possessive.

He liked it.

They all rode to the shelter together, huddled in the back rows of James’s big SUV. When they arrived, they found Neville Longbottom waiting in the front lobby for them. He nervously explained that he’d wanted to sign up at school but had forgotten, so had just shown up instead. Draco had never been close with Neville, but Harry and Hermione greeted him enthusiastically.

James pulled down three clipboards from the wall, handing one to Harry, one to Hermione, and one to Neville. “Alright, pair off and follow the directions on your clipboard. We’ll meet back here in two hours to debrief, and I’ll sign off on your volunteer forms.”

Draco immediately moved to stand by Hermione. Likewise, Daphne took a large step to her right, peering innocently at Harry’s clipboard as she looped her arm through his. This left Pansy to pair up with Neville, who seemed completely unfazed by her demeanor, which had been known to send most teenage boys—including Draco—running in terror. Pansy seemed to notice Neville’s lack of interest; her eyes narrowed on the back of his tall form, lips pursing in a determined moue. Draco did not envy Neville the next few hours.

The others disappeared into different areas of the shelter. Draco followed Hermione down a tiled hall, wincing slightly at the sensory overload of countless dogs barking and whining as they passed. He’d hoped they’d have a chance to talk, but he could barely hear himself think back here.

Hermione looked up from her clipboard, yelling to be heard. “We need to get each dog fresh food and water. Then we can take turns sitting with them, okay?”

He nodded.

The time passed quickly, with he and Hermione working efficiently to open each kennel, change out the food and water, and make sure the kennels were clean. Having never had a dog of his own, Draco was a little intimidated by the jumping and barking of some of the larger dogs, but he followed Hermione’s lead: staying calm, speaking softly, kneeling down and extending a gentle hand to show the terrified, lonely dogs that he meant them no harm. When an enormous German Shepherd leaped onto its back feet, placing both paws against Draco’s chest in order to give him several enthusiastic licks to the face, Hermione laughed so hard that tears leaked from her eyes.

After their most important task was finished, they spent their remaining time sitting with some of the sadder shelter inhabitants. Hermione disappeared into the kennel of a doe-eyed pit bull, sitting patiently on the floor until the dog’s tail came out from between its legs and gave a few gentle thwaps. She hummed softly to it, a tune Draco didn’t recognize, and he watched in astonishment as the dog scooted on its belly until it was pressed up against Hermione’s leg.

Draco chose a kennel with two smaller dogs: a thoroughly pissed-off Chihuahua that kept up a constant stream of growling from his place atop a little cot, and a trembling ball of matted fur that Hermione thought might be a poodle.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, waffling between not wanting to ruin his jeans and wanting to befriend the scraggly creature, before finally sighing and taking a seat. He pressed his back against the bars of the kennel. The little dog peered at him, only one eye visible beneath its snarled fur.

“It’s okay, little guy,” Draco said softly. “Or I don’t know, girl maybe. Doesn’t really matter—gender is a social construct, right?” 

The dog blinked.

“Right,” Draco repeated, speaking mostly to himself in an attempt to cover up his uncertainty. He thought of Hermione humming to the pit bull, and felt inspiration strike. “Um, you want me to play you a song?” He reached into his pocket, sliding out his phone and pulling up his music library. “I heard this for the first time last weekend and it blew my mind. You know, between you and me, pup? I get literal chills when they hit that high note at the end.” 

He looked up at the dog as the song started playing, nodding encouragingly when it merely stared back at him. The chihuahua had finally stopped growling, like it wanted to hear the song, too. Draco smiled at the thought.

As the music played, among the echoes of barking and whining in the dog kennels of an animal shelter, Draco closed his eyes and listened. 

_Something has changed within me, something is not the same. I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game._

“You and me both, Elphaba,” he murmured, stretching both legs out in front of him. He heard the tell-tale sound of the dog’s nails clicking across the hard floor, and held perfectly still so as not to scare it off. 

A wet nose pressed against his hand, sniffing gently a few times before a tiny, warm tongue licked at his fingers. He smiled, cracking one eye open to peer down at the dog. It wagged its tail hesitantly.

“Look at you,” he said quietly, stroking a hand over the tangles on top of its head. “Still willing to trust me even though other people have treated you badly.”

“Dogs are like that,” Hermione’s voice said from behind him, and he turned to find her leaning in the now-open doorway of the kennel. “Far superior to humans in almost every way.”

“You’re like that, too.” He patted the dog on the head twice more, then stood, sliding his phone back in his pocket. “Far superior to me, I mean,” he joked, pleased by her flushed cheeks and shy smile. Even though no one was around, he moved closer, helpless against the urge to touch her. “And willing to trust me even though you’ve been hurt before.”

She looked up at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling more quickly than normal. “You won’t hurt me.” She lifted her hand, pushing back the hair that fell over his brow. “Will you?”

He captured her hand in both of his, holding it tightly against his chest. “I won’t.” 

Her eyes moved across his face, searching. “But you and Astoria—”

He cut her off with a quick shake of his head, letting go of her hand to clutch her shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with Astoria, Hermione. I don’t know what I _want_ to happen. I feel like—like I’m a different person now than I was when I asked you for your help. I don’t know if I—or if you—”

He inhaled shakily. They were standing very close to each other. She’d twisted her fingers into the front of his shirt, and his hands dropped from her shoulders, sliding down her back and gently stroking along the notches of her spine.

“If I what, Draco?” 

He swallowed, not missing the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He dropped his head, bringing his lips closer to hers. “If you feel the same way about me as I do about you.”

“I—Draco, I—” She tilted her face up to him, eyes slowly closing. He could barely hear her over the pounding in his chest.

In the distance, a door slammed, and then Harry’s voice was calling for them down the long hallway of kennels. “Hermione? Malfoy? Are you guys still in here?”

Hermione stepped back from Draco, turning away from him to call back to Harry. “We’re here! Just finishing the last kennel.”

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away, shaking her head. “Not now,” she whispered.

He frowned, but followed her out of the kennel and back to the main lobby. Everyone else seemed in good spirits; Harry and Daphne were laughing as they told Hermione about the cats they’d worked with, while Neville and Pansy were chatting quietly by the doors. 

James Potter sat behind the main counter, initialing their volunteer forms and returning their clipboards to their place on the wall before leading them back to the car and driving them home.

Hermione was quiet the whole time, refusing to meet his eyes. When they got back to Harry’s house, she mumbled a quick goodbye then rushed to her car, driving off despite his attempts to talk to her.

Daphne and Pansy left soon after, yet Draco remained, standing on the sidewalk in front of his car, feeling lost. 

“You uh, okay Malfoy?” Harry asked, kicking at a weed poking out of a crack in the cement.

Draco shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets with a sigh. 

A pained expression appeared on Harry’s face. Draco knew that expression. It meant he was about to do something he _really_ didn’t want to do.

“Do you want to, um,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck, “come in and have lunch? We have leftover pizza. And we could talk more about the thing with Hermione, if you want.” 

When Draco hesitated, Harry’s face hardened. “Forget it, you’re probably busy—”

“No,” Draco said, cutting him off. “I’m not busy. And I’d love some pizza.” He smiled, and Harry smiled back, a tentative peace offering that Draco appreciated more than he could say. “You don’t still like pineapple on yours, do you?”

Harry laughed. The sound of it was real and true, based on countless childhood arguments over the best (and worst) pizza toppings. Draco laughed with him, all the way into the kitchen, where Lily greeted them both with surprised—but very fond—hugs.

It had been three weeks since he’d asked Hermione to pretend to be his girlfriend.

But Draco didn’t think he was all that confused anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think in the comments!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione wrestles with her feelings for her fake boyfriend.

Hermione drove home from Harry’s house, relying on her subconscious to ensure she stopped at red lights and turned on the correct streets. 

The rest of her was completely focused on the near-kiss she and Draco had just had. It shouldn’t have been romantic—standing in a dirty kennel at an animal shelter, surrounded by barking and whining dogs—but it had been. It shouldn’t have made her feel like her heart would beat out of her chest, but it did.

And it scared her.

She pulled into her garage, waving distractedly at her dad, who was tinkering at his workbench. Then she fled up the stairs, slamming the door to her room like it would keep her thoughts from following her. 

Dropping into the chair at her desk, she opened her laptop in an attempt to take her mind off the last few hours. But reading over her history report and triple spell-checking her English paper only held her attention for so long. She needed a different distraction. 

She moved to her bed, flopping onto her belly and pulling out her phone. 

Mistake.

A photo of her mom stared back at her from her lockscreen, young and beautiful and full of life. She’d always known how to make Hermione feel better. So many times throughout her childhood, Hermione remembered her mother sitting on her bed, stroking her hair, and humming softly to her until whatever had made Hermione upset seemed inconsequential. 

More than any time in the past few years—even more than during her break-up with her first real boyfriend, Ron—Hermione wished her mom was here. She’d know exactly what to say, exactly what to do to get Hermione out of this mess she was in: the one where she had real feelings for her fake boyfriend.

Sighing, she turned off the phone’s screen and buried her face in her pillow.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

School on Monday wasn’t any easier. Hermione’s attention wandered in her first period calculus class, earning her a concerned look from Mr. Slughorn. She was typically the first person to answer his questions; today, she didn’t even raise her hand. Second period wasn’t any better. Her AP English Lit teacher, a bohemian middle-aged woman with big hair and bigger glasses, crouched next to Hermione’s desk during an essay-writing workshop, placing her warm hand on top of Hermione’s cool one.

“Is everything quite alright, Miss Granger?” she asked. “Your aura is rather pale this morning.”

Hermione got a whiff of coffee and patchouli, and carefully schooled her features into a neutral expression. “I’m fine, Ms. Trelawney,” she replied. “Only, I’ve already finished my essay, so I was trying to use this time to um...unblock my chakras.”

Trelawney nodded emphatically, eyes going even wider behind her enormous lenses. “Yes, I can see they are in need of a good cleansing.” She looked around the room, then leaned in closer to Hermione. “I’m not supposed to do this, strictly speaking, but you’re such a strong student and are obviously in crisis at the moment. So take this pass,”—she reached into her pocket, pulling out a bright pink slip of paper with her signature on it—“and go find a nice quiet place to work until break.”

Hermione seized the opportunity, not even stopping to think about how she’d just lied to a teacher and was effectively cutting class for the first time. Instead, she gathered her possessions and bolted out the door.

She was in such a hurry to outrun her own muddled thoughts that she stopped paying attention to her surroundings—until she turned a corner and saw Draco, sitting in the hallway outside his own English classroom with Dean Thomas, taking turns quizzing each other with the flashcards Hermione had made him last week.

She backpedaled, hurrying back the way she came and disappearing into the girls’ bathroom. She crossed to the sink, leaning on its porcelain rim and taking a few deep breaths. Then she lifted her head, staring at her reflection in the dirty mirror until the image blurred.

The shrill sound of the bell jolted her back to reality, and she had only a few seconds of warning before she heard voices coming toward the bathroom. Not ready to face anyone, she quickly ducked into a stall.

“—it’s completely ridiculous. I know he’s trying to make me jealous, but it’s not going to work.”

Hermione recognized that voice. _Astoria._

“I don’t know, Tor. We saw them together on Saturday and they looked—well, they looked like a couple,” a voice that sounded a lot like Daphne’s replied.

“Total couple. Super lovey-dovey,” added someone who could only be Pansy, judging from the snarky tone—and the mint green high-heeled sandals Hermione could see under the stall door.

Astoria scoffed. “There’s no way Draco would ever get over me that fast. Especially not with _Hermione Granger.”_

“Don’t be a bitch, Tor,” came Daphne’s voice again. “I mean, it’s no one’s fault but your own that Draco even had the opportunity to ‘get over’ you. And besides, you’re with Percy now. Why do you even care?”

Hermione’s brows lifted in surprise. 

Astoria sputtered at her sister. “Ugh, Daphne, fuck _off._ Of course I’m with Percy, and _of course_ I don’t care about Draco slumming it with that skank. I’m just making an observation, is all.”

Hermione’s brows shot together in anger. 

“Mmm-hmm,” came from Pansy. “Can totally tell you don’t care by your use of that slut-shaming pejorative.”

“God, you guys are the worst. Why do I even hang out with you?”

“You hang out with me because you don’t have a choice, sister. And that feeling is definitely mutual right now,” Daphne drawled. 

Astoria let out another frustrated sound, somewhere between a growl and a shriek, and then Hermione heard her footsteps stomping out of the bathroom. She sighed quietly, ready to stay in this particular stall until break was over if it meant avoiding Daphne and Pansy.

“You can come out now, Granger.”

Hermione jumped. Pansy’s voice was right outside her stall door. She peeked through the crack, finding a perfectly-filled brow arching back at her.

Grimacing, she slid the lock and stepped out, finding both Daphne and Pansy waiting for her. She opened her mouth, ready to defend her eavesdropping, when Pansy cut her off.

“None of that,” she said, waving her manicured fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Sorry you had to hear Astoria’s bullshit.”

“How did you know I was in here?” Hermione asked, eyes darting between the girls.

Daphne dropped her eyes to Hermione’s trusty combat boots.

Hermione blushed. “Oh.”

Two freshmen girls chose that very inopportune moment to enter the bathroom. Pansy stepped forward, placing a hand on each of their shoulders and gently but firmly turning them back toward the door. “Sorry ladies,” she said, “this bathroom is currently out of order. Go find another one.”

Daphne moved closer to Hermione. “I really _am_ sorry about Astoria. She’s my sister, and I love her, of course, but she’s been spoiled since birth. She’s used to getting her way, and hasn’t really ever had to face consequences for her actions.”

“But you have?” It slipped out before Hermione could stop herself.

Daphne shrugged. “I have. Our parents...well, Astoria was sick a lot when we were kids. I remember spending more time waiting in doctor’s offices than playing on playgrounds. So my parents have always treated Astoria like she was made of glass.” Her lips twitched. “Me? Not so much.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She’d always assumed that the Greengrass twins—privileged, pretty, and perfect—had easy lives. More and more, she was coming to realize that no one’s life was truly easy. Everyone had their own struggles, their own difficulties.

“Basically, what we’re trying to say is that you should ignore Astoria,” Pansy said, looping an arm around Daphne’s shoulders. “She’s just mad Draco isn’t locking himself in his room, eating ice cream and listening to ‘Someone Like You.’”

Hermione smiled at the mental image. “He’s definitely not doing that.”

“And we don’t think you’re a skank,” Daphne added. “In fact, I know Astoria doesn’t really think that, either. She’s just jealous. Draco could not have picked a better girl to bring out all Astoria’s insecurities.”

“Are you serious? Me...make Astoria insecure?”

“Definitely,” Daphne nodded. “You’re like, the valedictorian, right? And you also have that ‘no fucks given’ attitude and major artistic credibility. You should have heard Percy going on and on about the ‘pure poetry’ you used to write when you and Ron were together. I thought Astoria was going to have an aneurysm.”

“You also have to know that your hair is like, absolutely the best,” Pansy added. Daphne nodded her agreement.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She’d never had a lot of female friends, and the unsolicited praise from two girls that she’d always assumed were snobby and rude caught her off guard. 

“So anyway,” Daphne said, “don’t worry too much about the dumb shit Astoria and Cormac are saying about you. Nobody agrees with them, anyway.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “Wait...Cormac? What is Cormac saying?”

“Oh my god, you haven’t heard!” Pansy shrieked. “Ok, so Theo texted me right after first period—he has weight-training with Draco—and told me that Draco fucking _punched_ Cormac. Full-on punched him in the face.”

“What?” Hermione was glad she couldn’t see her reflection. She was sure her face looked as horrified as her voice sounded. 

“I _know,”_ Pansy said, leaning in so close that Hermione could smell her citrusy shampoo. “Apparently, Cormac was making gross comments about you—like, how you must have a diamond-encrusted p-word because Draco got over Astoria so quick—”

“P-word,” Hermione repeated numbly.

“—and how once Draco was through with you, he’d like to take you out for a test drive. And so then Draco said something all angry, like, ‘Shut your fucking mouth about Hermione,’ and then Cormac said something all douchey, like, ‘Why don’t you make me?’ and then Draco was like, ‘I think I will,’ and then he punched him—In. The. Face.” She punctuated the last three words with hand claps.

Daphne nodded along. “Tell her the best part.”

“The best—” Pansy gave Daphne a confused look before rolling her eyes. “Right. The ‘best part,’ according to Little Miss Thirsty over here, is that it was at the end of the period, so the boys were all changing, which probably means they were shirtless.”

“ _Shirtless,_ Hermione,” Daphne echoed with a sigh. “Can you even believe? It’s like something out of a romance novel.”

“And Harry was the one to pull Draco off Cormac, and to cover for Draco with Ms. Hooch. Cormac was like, completely humiliated, so he didn’t contradict Harry when he said Cormac slipped and busted his nose on a locker door.”

“Harry is literally the best.” Daphne’s eyes were on the ceiling, and her voice had gone dreamy.

Hermione blinked, unsure of what to say. She was saved from having to say anything by the bell ringing, signaling the end of break.

“Oh, fuck me,” groaned Pansy. She reached out a hand, placing it gently on Hermione’s shoulder. “Listen, I’m throwing a party this weekend because my parents are out of town. My mom is going on a ‘wellness retreat’ in Mexico, which really means she’s getting an ass-ton of cheap Botox injected into her face. You and Draco should come, alright?”

“And bring Harry, of course,” Daphne interjected hastily. “And Neville,” she added, laughing when Pansy frowned.

“Um, yeah. Okay,” Hermione managed, still feeling a bit dazed by the information overload.

The two other girls waved and left, and Hermione was finally, blissfully alone in the bathroom. But her head was no clearer than it had been when she first entered—quite the opposite, in fact.

She pulled out her phone, sending a quick text message to her dad to tell him she felt sick and was coming home. Then she fled to the parking lot, still determined to outrun her emotions.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

By lunchtime, Hermione was deep into a Seinfeld binge and even deeper into a bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips. Crookshanks was curled up on the couch next to her, purring so loudly that she barely heard the doorbell ring.

When it rang a second time, she muted the television, frowning in the direction of her front door.

When it rang a third time, she stood slowly, creeping toward the door and telling herself that no one who was here to murder her would have rung the doorbell so many times first.

A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “Granger, I know you’re in there.” 

_Draco._ Her traitorous heart seized, then began beating in triple time. 

“You weren’t at our meeting spot at break. Weren’t waiting by my car at lunch. Weren’t even in the school library. I checked.”

“I’m, um, not feeling well,” she called, adding a cough for effect. “You probably don’t want to see me right now.”

“Don’t be stupid. Open up.”

She sighed, then pulled the door open. Draco stood there, shoulder propped against her porch railing, eyes bright with amusement. He pushed off, strolling past her into her house.

“You don’t look sick, Granger,” he tossed over his shoulder.

She set her jaw. “Well, I am.”

“Is that why you avoided my calls all weekend? Avoided _me_ all day? _Cut class?”_ He took her abandoned place on the couch, picking up the bag of chips and raising an eyebrow at her. “Are these chips free range?”

In spite of herself, she smiled. “Shut up.” Then, catching sight of his bruised hand, she seized the opportunity to change the subject. “What happened to your knuckles, Draco?”

He had the decency to look ashamed. “You’re going to be mad at me.”

She sat next to him, pulling his hand into her lap for closer inspection. “No, I’m not.”

He sighed, dropping his head back into the couch cushions and speaking to the ceiling. “Fine. I punched Cormac McLaggen in his stupid face. But please know that I’m really disappointed in myself. My actions were a byproduct of the toxic masculinity that has infected our society and warped boys’ thoughts on how to deal with negative feelings. I also promise that I’ll never do something like that again, for all those reasons...and also because my hand really fucking hurts.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line, determined not to smile. “I see. Why did you punch him?”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Because he said horrible things about you. And look,” he added, sitting up and leaning toward her, “I know you can stick up for yourself, and that don’t need me to defend you, and that you of course don’t like, ‘belong’ to me or any sexist bullshit like that, but I just”—he shifted closer, reaching for her other hand with his uninjured one—“I don’t want anyone talking about you like that. Not because you’re my girlfriend— _fake_ girlfriend, I mean—but because I...well, I care about you, Granger.”

They sat together, hands clasped, looking into each other’s eyes as his words hung between them. Then Crookshanks let out a loud yowl and the moment was broken.

Hermione blinked, pulling her hands free. “You’re right. I don’t approve of you hitting someone. But—thank you for sticking up for me.”

He smiled, a dimple appearing in one cheek, and she cursed internally at how fucking cute he looked. “You’re welcome.”

Things were more normal between them after that. She got him an ice pack from her freezer for his swollen knuckles, and he happily settled in to watch Seinfeld, eat her chips, and pet her cat.

“Hey, listen,” he said after a while. “Harry told me about an open mic night at Hallowed Grounds on Thursday. I was thinking that you should perform one of your songs.”

She scoffed. “Hard pass.”

“What? Why?”

“Stage fright, for one.”

He reached over, tugging at a curl. “Isn’t it your dream to be a singer? To perform? How are you going to do that if you’re too afraid to sing at a small-town coffee shop?”

She batted his hand away. “My dream is actually to be a songwriter. My voice is okay, but my real talent lies in writing lyrics.”

He shrugged. “I still think we should go. Maybe you could sing a cover if you’re not up for debuting an original?”

She snatched the chip bag out of his hands, doing her best to avoid looking directly at him. “I’ll think about it.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Three nights later, Hermione found herself at Hallowed Grounds, sipping a cup of green tea and politely applauding after each musical performance. Her knee bounced under the table; the only outward sign of the nerves that were twisting her stomach into knots.

Draco sat beside her, his hand warm and steady on her lower back. Harry was across from her, annoyingly calm and collected as usual. Behind the bar, the cafe’s owner, Xen Lovegood, took orders and pulled levers on an enormous copper espresso machine. His daughter Luna, a petite girl in their year with hair almost as blonde as Draco’s, delivered drinks to tables. 

As she passed them, Luna winked at Hermione, offering a whispered, “Break a leg,” before serving a bowl-like mug to the booth behind them—which, Hermione realized in dawning horror, hosted not only both of Draco’s parents _and_ both of Harry’s parents, but also her dad.

She turned to Draco, eyes wide, to find him watching her, a hesitant smile tugging at his mouth. “They wanted to support you,” he said simply.

Xen’s voice cut through the muted clapping of the crowd, pulling Hermione’s attention back to the impromptu stage at the front of the cafe. “Next up we have a hometown girl singing a classic love song. Please welcome to the Hallowed stage...Hermione Granger!”

Thunderous applause sounded from the tables behind her when she stood, but she deliberately refused to look back as she walked to the stage, for fear of losing her nerve. She kept her eyes on the floor until the music started, taking a deep, steadying breath before lifting her chin and starting to sing.

The room was hushed, held captive by the haunting melody, familiar lyrics, and sweet, clear tone of Hermione’s voice. The longer she sang, the more comfortable she felt, in no small part thanks to Draco’s smile—a bright beacon in the darkened room, blocking out everything that would normally make her hands fidget and her voice shake.

The song was blessedly short, and when she finished, there was a moment of silence before the clapping and cheering started. Draco leapt to his feet, whooping loudly, face beaming with pride. She mumbled a thank you to the crowd before hurrying back to her table, allowing Draco to pull her into his arms. Over his shoulder, she met the knowing gaze of her dad, and scowled good-naturedly at him. 

After accepting hugs from her dad, Harry, and the other assembled parents, she sank gratefully into her seat, turning her chair toward Narcissa in order to ask about her most recent legislative session, where she’d led the charge to pass automatic voter registration and a statewide vote-by-mail initiative.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Draco and Harry standing and moving toward the front of the cafe. Just as she registered that Draco was behind the microphone and Harry had pulled up a chair next to him, an acoustic guitar held loosely in his lap, she heard Xen’s voice once more. 

“Our final performance this night is one from the heart—a special song for a special girl. Please welcome Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter!”

A ringing started in Hermione’s ears. She felt a tingling in her cheeks that could only mean she was blushing, so she pressed her cool fingers to her face, eyes glued to Draco.

He smiled, not looking anywhere but at her. “Hermione, I’m really glad we found each other again. You’ve reminded me of who I am, and shown me who I want to be.” He shifted from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke. “I know I’m not a singer or a song-writer. But I hope that humiliating myself like this—in front of our family, friends, and a bunch of strangers, no less—will show you what I don’t have the words to adequately express.” He licked his lips. Swallowed nervously. “So, with the blessing of your dad, I’d like to sing a song for you. And then ask you, most sincerely, if you will please be my date for prom.”

A surprised, giddy laugh escaped from her mouth. He caught it, grinning back at her before nodding at Harry. Harry smiled, then began strumming his guitar.

To her horror, she felt tears sting the back of her eyes at the song’s opening notes.

And that was before Draco started to sing, his voice untrained but achingly sincere.

_I took my love, and I took it down.  
I climbed a mountain and I turned around._

Her eyes flew to her dad. He sat with his arms crossed, eyes misty at the lyrics to her mother’s favorite song. He smiled at her, nodding encouragingly, and she managed a shaky nod in return before turning back to Draco.

He held her gaze like she was the only person in the room.

Her heart lurched in her chest, its beat undergoing a slow but steady uptick in tempo until she could feel it pounding behind her ribcage.

_Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?  
Can the child within my heart rise above?_

The blood beneath her skin sang, rushing through her veins and making her feel light-headed.

_Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?  
Can I handle the seasons of my life?_

Electricity tingled along her nerve endings. The hair on her arms, legs, and the back of her neck lifted. She shivered.

_Well, I’ve been afraid of changing,  
Cause I’ve built my life around you._

Her tears fell freely now. They were full of both joy and grief—for Draco’s gesture, for the memory of her mother, for the attention and care he’d shown her over the past several weeks, for the truth that was staring her in the face.

_But time makes you bolder, children get older.  
I’m getting older, too._

She loved him. 

She _loved_ him.

He was finishing his song, softly singing the last few lyrics, but she couldn’t hear him over the beating of her heart. Couldn’t see anything but his shy smile, only for her.

She stood on shaky legs as he moved toward her. Accepted his hug, clutched the leather of his jacket tightly in her fists, breathed deeply. He pulled back, reached behind her to accept a bouquet of flowers from his dad, then offered them to her with another smile.

“Your favorite, if I’m not mistaken?”

She looked down, feeling dazed. Of course he’d remember her favorite flower. Fuck.

The peony stems slipped from her numb fingers. “I— I’m sorry, Draco. I loved it, I just—I have to—” she broke off, giving up on the effort required to speak. Instead she turned, rushing to the exit, once more trying to escape the feelings that threatened to drown her.

The cool night air provided blessed relief after the warm, humid interior of the cafe. Hermione had approximately ten seconds to bask in her solitude before the door opened behind her. Familiar footsteps followed her to the small parking lot, then a hand gently grasped her elbow.

“Hermione?” Draco’s voice sounded unsure. Almost fearful. She turned to face him, searching his beautiful face as he spoke to her. “I’m so sorry if I upset you. I know that was your mom’s favorite song, but your dad reassured me that it usually didn’t make you sad to hear it. I was just trying to do something special, to show you—”

She didn’t let him finish. Instead, she grasped the front of his leather jacket, pushed herself up on her toes, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

He went absolutely still against her, and she pulled back, full of regret for her impulsiveness. But then he made a humming groan low in his throat and tugged her back to him.

He kissed her like he’d been dying to do it: pressing her body to his, gripping her waist, sliding his hands up her back to tangle in the hair at her nape. She mirrored his enthusiasm: cupping his angular jaw, sucking gently at his lip until he gasped against her mouth, leaning into him until he had to shift his weight onto the car behind him—which happened to be his Tesla.

They kissed for so long that Hermione forgot they were in a parking lot, forgot they were outside a very crowded cafe, forgot everything but the warmth of his body and the slide of his tongue. 

She was sure she would have kissed him forever, if not for the loud banging of the cafe door, followed by the tuneless humming of Luna Lovegood, her blonde braid swinging as she crossed to the dumpster at the back of the lot. She hefted a large black bag up and over the rim, then smiled over at them, still entwined with each other but no longer attached at the mouth.

“Guess she said yes?” she asked.

Draco burst into laughter. Hermione dropped her forehead to his chest, nodding into the warm skin above his shirt collar.

When Luna was gone, Draco dropped his head again, this time kissing her so softly, so sweetly, that her heart clenched painfully in her chest. They broke apart only when the cafe crowd finally started to trickle out. Draco held her hand until she was safely in her car. He kissed her once more, as though he couldn’t help himself, then made her promise to text him when she got home.

Hermione drove home slowly, once again relying on her subconscious to ensure she arrived safely. 

The rest of her was completely focused on the kiss—the kisses, she corrected herself—she and Draco had just shared. On the warm, happy glow that began in the region of her heart and spread through her whole body. On the realization that she was absolutely, irrevocably in love with Draco Malfoy, her pretend boyfriend. 

It should have scared her. But for now, she refused to let those thoughts creep in. She’d spent too much time running from the truth of her feelings.

It was time to stop running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a HUGE thank you to both [Pacific Rimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud) and [Rose Harper Maxwell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell) for their alpha/beta work, patience, and general amazingness.
> 
> And an extra thank you to [Scully Murphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullymurphy) for helping me brainstorm a song for Draco to sing! Funnily enough, "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac was one of _both_ of our top choices! It's such a beautiful song, and fits this story perfectly.
> 
> Finally, as always, thank you for reading! I know it can be a pain waiting for updates, but I'm so glad you do. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again for reading! If you are so inclined, I’d love to have you come find me on [Tumblr](https://persephonestone.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> I also have a Pinterest board for this story [here](https://www.pinterest.com/persephonestone2/metamorphosis/). Check it out, it's a lot of fun!


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